


A City of Fortune and Failure

by just_a_dram



Series: A City [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Love, New York City, POV Multiple, Politics, Scandal, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-12
Updated: 2016-03-02
Packaged: 2017-12-11 16:32:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 48
Words: 183,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/800809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_a_dram/pseuds/just_a_dram
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Amidst maneuvers and intrigue, heartbreak and betrayal, bankruptcy and political scandal, the players jockey for power, money, and prestige in a game of business, politics, and love in New York City.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is a modern AU of ASOIAF. If you are a fan of the show and have not yet read the books, there will be _some_ spoilers for the series. The intention is to include every great house if not every character from the series. This fic will unfold not only in the traditional format but also by utilizing social media. While it is not necessary to follow the social media component of this fic, plotlines will be fleshed out using tumblr, providing hints for future developments and encouraging interaction with the characters between updates. Feel free to follow and bug (nicely, please) the characters, as they are introduced. Want to follow Sansa Stark's [tumblr](http://makepinklemonade.tumblr.com)?

Prologue

Robb jogs towards the helicopter, his boots pounding the hard, dusty ground beneath his feet. The noise of its four blades and twin engines is thunderous, a high pitched whine and patter that makes it impossible to understand what Private Torrhen is shouting at him. Robb signals with his hand that he can’t hear and Torrhen shrugs without pause in their dash to join their squad in the aircraft for transport to Kandahar Airfield. Robb puts his head down to avoid the downdraft that batters at their bodies until his hands are wrapped around the open door and he’s pulled inside by Sergeant Jon.

They call him Great Jon, not only because he’s their squad leader, the oldest among them, and massive even for a well built Marine, but also to distinguish between Small Jon, team leader of Robb’s fireteam. Torrhen ducks in behind him and they take their seats between Private Daryn and Private Halys, his team’s rifleman and assistant automatic rifleman. Both their eyes are closed, ready for liftoff.

Torrhen elbows him and shows him a torn packet of Skittles, no doubt saved from his last MRE, wordlessly offering him some.  Robb holds out his hand and Torrhen gives it a shake, dumping half a dozen into his hand. Robb tosses them back with a nod. Skittles, unlike M&M’s, melt in your hand before they ever melt in your mouth, leaving a rainbow smear of stickiness behind, and it’s a scorcher, pushing 100 degrees, hot enough to make sweat roll down the back of his neck into his desert digi-cammies, but the candy isn’t unappreciated. Torrhen’s a good guy. In fact, there isn’t a Marine in this copter he wouldn’t trust with his life.

He can’t help thinking that if Jon had been with him, if Jon hadn’t insisted on enlisting in the Army and they’d both signed up for the Marines instead, things would be different for his brother. Not that Jon would have been safer—Marines are tough, but not indestructible—but maybe he wouldn’t be at home, sleeping in a darkened basement. When Robb’s with his squad they’ve got running jokes and stories and stupid bullshit, which helps keeps them sane. Jon’s always been too damn serious. Maybe no one knew how to respond to his moods. Robb would have made Jon laugh just to keep him from cracking up. From Jon’s e-mails, it sounds like he could use some of that sanity now.

Their father was a Marine like his father before him. They were raised on stories of Grandpa Stark, a tough guy who’d stormed the beaches in the second wave to land on Iwo Jima. Jon by all rights should have been a Marine, but he followed Uncle Ben’s example, going Army.

 _It’s hard for him, Robb_ , his father had reminded him not for the first time, when Jon announced his decision. _He feels like he has to cut his own path_.

Because Ned Stark isn’t technically Jon’s father and this kind of follow in your father’s path crap reminds Jon of that unpleasant fact, but Robb thought that was bullshit. All Jon knew about his real father was that they shared a last name—Snow—and Robb’s father had been there for him ever since Jon’s mom died in 2000. Robb could hardly remember what it was like before Jon Snow had come to live with them and become his brother. He always thought Jon should just legally change his name, be a Stark in name and not just in practice. He was already in all the staged family photos the AP photographers put together and was dragged around on campaign to be trotted up on stage during the summer, when they should have been out drinking and feeling up girls. There was all the expectation of duty to one’s country and morally upright behavior heaped upon him. Might as well wear the family name too.

But there are those persistent reminders that Jon’s not Robb’s brother in the ways that count to some people—like his name and his former rank as Specialist Jon Snow of the U.S. Army. Jon served for over two years and he liked serving as much as anyone can like being sent to Afghanistan. Until it all changed for Jon four months ago, when his squad was lost. Robb doesn’t know what would happen to him if something took his squad out; you can’t really afford to think about something like that. But, there’s no way he’d have to go through it alone. Where were Jon’s brothers in arms, when he was falling apart after the attack? When he lost his girl and his buddies all in one roadside bombing?

Dacey grins up at him as she straps herself in with a click he still can’t hear. He can see in her face what he’s feeling right now, what they’re all probably thinking, as the helicopter lifts off the ground, rocking and floating up with a forceful downdraft.

Almost there.

He’s one step closer to eating something that tastes more like home. Something other than the chili with beans and rice MRE’s he’s been ingesting for the past five days. The thought of a giant soda and a greasy slice of Pizza Hut pepperoni pizza is enough to make his mouth water. He’s one step closer to a computer too, where he can Skype with Jeyne and send Jon an e-mail with the filthy joke Ed Karstark told him. He also needs to send what will probably end up being a belated Mother’s Day message to Mom. Something to tell her she’s made him the man he is today, someone he hopes makes her proud.

…

WASHINGTON – The cause of a helicopter crash on Sunday that killed eight U.S. troops and three Afghans remains unclear, although the Black Hawk helicopter went down in a region infested with Taliban insurgents, according to NATO.

The crash took place in Shah Wali Kot, located in the Kandahar province, which makes up the heartland for Taliban insurgency. The Black Hawk, a workhorse aircraft for transporting both troops and gear, burned after the crash. One Afghan survived.

U.S. troops rely on the Black Hawks in Afghanistan to traverse rugged terrain that would otherwise have them facing broad deserts and roads planted with bombs. Helicopter pilots fly some 50,000 missions a year.

The causes for helicopter crashes are numerous. Insurgents shoot them down, but they can also be the result of mechanical problems, weather, and human error.

Sunday’s crash was the highest death toll for U.S. troops in a helicopter crash since Aug. 16, 2012, when 7 U.S. troops died in a Black Hawk helicopter crash.


	2. Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If they have to bury Robb, it should be in winter with a heavy snow on the ground. Something should register that Jon's brother burned up in a helicopter crash beyond their collection of dour faces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the initial interest in this fic! Your comments, follows, favs, and kudos are much appreciated.

Chapter One: Jon

Jon grips the black, hard plastic handles on Bran’s chair too tight, till his knuckles turn white, while pushing his little brother over the uneven turf of Wolfswood Cemetery, the cemetery where several generations of Starks have been buried in north western Michigan. It’s where he would rest too if it had been him and not Ygritte and the rest of his squad that died in action, if it had been him and not Robb. Even though he’s not a Stark, he knows Ned would have buried him here beneath a shiny headstone.

Jon glances around. This must be what people mean when they say a cemetery is peaceful. It’s a peaceful enough place, even downright beautiful, though he feels anything but at peace. There’s something off about burying his brother on this picturesque, spring day with the redbud and crabapple trees blooming between the graves and rows upon rows of sunny faced daffodils and bright tulips lining the paths. The smell of lilacs is so strong that Jon thinks he might hereafter always associate it with death, the way he associates sand with blood. If they have to bury Robb, it should be in winter with a heavy snow on the ground. Something should register that his brother burned up in a helicopter crash beyond their collection of dour faces.

They approach the freshly dug, neatly squared grave over which Robb’s flag draped coffin is perched, and he wheels Bran around next to Cat, kicking the lock in place. Cat’s been helped into her seat by her husband, while she struggles to hold a squirming six year old in her lap. Rickon’s getting a little big to be held in his mother’s lap comfortably, but he suspects Cat’s afraid he’ll dash out in the middle of service if she lets him go. ‘High-spirited’ is the term they’ve been encouraged to use in regards to his youngest brother’s behavior, but as high-spirited as any of the other Stark kids had been, none of them had been quite like Rickon.

Jon squats down, though he can feel Cat’s eyes on him, when he grips Bran’s knobby knees, and whispers to his little brother, whose face is deathly pale, “Remember what I said.”

Bran nods solemnly at Jon’s reminder.

 _You’re going to want to look away, but Robb deserves our attention even if it hurts to give it_.

_Will Robb know we’re there?_

Jon assured Bran that he would, though he’s not sure about that. There’s only one thing he knows for certain. _Your dad will be really proud of you._

It’s a reminder for himself as much as it is for the nine year old, because he feels the tension twisting his stomach, urging him to turn his back and march as quickly as his legs can carry him to the cool dark of the black limo that brought them here, winding through the lush cemetery behind the hearse. There will be photographers present and it would sell newspapers to have little red haired Bran Stark in his wheelchair with his eyes screwed shut tight at his brother’s funeral. Sell even more to have Jon Snow, former U.S. soldier, storming off.

There’s a certain Stark stalwartness, a surety in the face of crisis that the great people of New York have come to expect. Ned has set the example for them all and now they all have a duty to rise to those expectations.

When Jon straightens up, he hesitates for a moment, rubs his sweaty hands over his black wool slacks, and shoves them in his pockets to jangle keys that aren’t there. He’s unsure where he’s supposed to fit into this family scene with the Starks all lined up on white, wooden folding chairs, looking like professional mourners in their best, somber black attire and rows upon rows of extended family and friends here to grieve with them.

He scans the crowd, trying not to assess them for potential threats the way he would a gathered crowd in Afghanistan. His VA counselor says those are old patterns that he needs to try his best to break and make new patterns to replace them.

Instead, he tries mostly unsuccessfully to place all the faces. There are dark haired, grey eyed Starks and red headed Tullys in the crowd, both sides of Ned and Cat’s family with names he can’t quite dredge up, and there are politicians—too many of them—in their crisp suits and smoothly combed hair. They’re the people that owe Senator Stark something or hope to gain something by being here today. Maybe some of them are truly friends of his father like the Baratheons. The Baratheons are hard to miss, seated alongside the Lannisters, creating a wall of blond punctuated only by Robert’s dark hair and hulking form.

The man’s sweating, dabbing at his forehead with a white handkerchief, though the day isn’t too warm. He looks like a bearded toad. Jon’s not particularly fond of any member of that family, but he’s been forced to deal with them ever since he moved into the Stark townhouse on the Upper East Side a couple of months before his first year of high school, when his mother died and Ned took him in. It’s a lengthy friendship between the New York senator, born not far from this cemetery, and the powerful owner of Baratheon Industries. Robert was Ned’s roommate in college and they belonged to the same fraternity. It was Robert who encouraged Ned to move his young family to New York, to enter politics in a much bigger pond. Robb is named after him, a tribute to their friendship.

Robb _was_ named after him.

Robert is married to Cersei Lannister. It’s how two of the most powerful families in New York came to be in each other’s pockets. Anyone else might find it a little awkward that Cersei’s former husband, the father of two of her children, sits alongside her today, but that’s the usual arrangement for them with Jaime Lannister never far from Cersei’s side.

Jon stares at Joffrey, the eldest Lannister kid, who is messing with his iPhone, for long enough that the guy finally looks up and notices Jon’s empty gaze. He has the nerve to glare back at him.

The seat next to Sansa is empty. Joffrey’s her boyfriend, and Jon knows he would have sat next to Ygritte if it had been her brother that died. Part of Jon wants to push through the crowd and drag Joffrey by his collar up to sit where he belongs. _The little shit_. But no one would appreciate the scene it would cause. Anyway, the greater part is glad Joffrey’s nowhere near them.

Robb was convinced Joffrey would ask Sansa to marry him, once he graduated this May. Maybe he already has. They’ll never be rid of him then. At least he’ll belong—son in law of Ned Stark. Jon’s just some interloper with his hands buried in his pockets. Lyanna’s kid, who isn’t even rightly Ned’s stepson.

But Arya sticks out a hand, palm up: someone needs him. He gratefully takes it, letting his little sister tug him down in between herself and Sansa, who sits with sunglasses as dark and wide as her mother’s. They make it impossible to see if either woman is crying. He could use a pair like that, as he blinks back the tears that keep stinging his eyes every time he accidently catches sight of the flag over Robb’s coffin.

Swaying slightly, he manages to bump into Sansa’s shoulder, jostling her, as he sits, but she remains otherwise impassive. He mumbles an apology and her head tilts in acknowledgement of his fumbling attempts to ask for her forgiveness just enough to send a cascade of dark hair sliding over her shoulder. Too dark. It’s not her usual Irish red. He should have noticed that detail, when she flew in from college and emerged out of a yellow taxi, after Robb’s crash, after she’d been called home in the midst of her finals, but he doesn’t remember a whole hell of a lot from those days.

She must have dyed it, although he doesn’t know why she’d obliterate something so uniquely beautiful. Ygritte always said her own fiery red hair was lucky. Except obviously it wasn’t lucky enough. Still pretty though, even as they yanked her helmet off of her as she died. For a second he sees her, bleeding out in front of him—red hair and red, red blood—and he has to count slowly back from ten, while he yanks at the white cuffs of his shirt and breathes too quick.

That was months ago. He’s here. There’s no screams. No medic with hands slicked with blood. Just Sansa and his sister sitting on either side of him.

He exhales slowly.

Maybe she had to dye it for a photo shoot. It looks like half the women in the crowd—a nondescript brown—and he finds himself staring at it, the way a thick, shiny curl is stuck in the white lace of her Peter Pan collar. It shouldn’t be important what color her hair is, but it strikes him as intrinsically wrong and he can’t stop gawking until Arya jabs him in the thigh and he manages to tear his eyes away.

“Are you gonna be okay when they do the volley?” she whispers.  “You’re not gonna flip?”

Arya knows about his PTSD. She gets him. She got him before he was broken and she gets him now. Even though she’s half his age and he remembers the day she was born and how she fussed whenever someone held her and her skinny little legs weren’t crawling, churning up the floor. With Cat busy with her charities, Ned away in D.C., Sansa at school, and the boys in Osha’s care, when Jon came home and was at his worst, it was Arya who saw it. She knows how he can get and knows something about what can set him off. She dropped a glass in the kitchen once, it shattered with a pop, and things got really black, really quick. It would have scared a kid, who wasn’t as tough as Arya, but she’s got real grit. Enough to dress totally differently from every other girl at her school, enough to wear her dark hair as short as a boy’s, enough to be unapologetically herself. Jon’s not so old that he can’t remember the cost of making yourself that different at thirteen, and Arya must pay it every day.

Cat’s a good enough mother to let Arya be who she is—even if that means wearing black pants and scuffed black boots instead of a dress today, a blouse being the only compromise required in Arya’s usual getup. His little sister is nothing like the polished young woman Sansa’s become, but Cat treats all of her children as if they’re special in their own right. Of course, Cat never much warmed to Jon. Hard enough to take, when your mom is dead, but understandable, considering how out of place he is in her family, but he’d never say she wasn’t good to her kids.

Cat explained to them in the limo what exactly the funeral would entail. A pastor to say a few words, the coffin, an honor guard, a rifle party to give the three volley salute, and because this is Ned Stark’s son, fighter jets in missing man formation. She spoke with such calm, preparing the younger ones for the things they might find upsetting, though Jon could see from the tightness of her jaw that she was hanging onto her composure by the skin of her teeth.

Jon didn’t need the run down: he knew by rote what was in store for them today. This wasn’t his first military funeral. He’d been to more than he’d like. Not Ygritte’s though. He hadn’t been discharged and sent home in time for that, had still be cracking up in Afghanistan and recovering from his own wounds.

Ned asked him if he wanted to wear his dress uniform for the funeral like the young Marines who stand by as honor guards. That was a decided no.

 _It was an honorable discharge, son_ , Ned reminded him.

At first that had meant something to Jon— _honorable_ discharge—because if something about him was slightly dishonorable that would reflect poorly on the man he considered his father and to whom he owed so much. But the honorable part was a fake, a joke, something he hadn’t earned. They’d only classified him as an honorable discharge because Ned’s a senator and a veteran. Not just some paper pushing vet either, but a hero of the Gulf War. That counted for something with the U.S. Army. No one wanted that tarnished by a bastard kid Ned was kind enough to give a home to.

Besides, Jon thinks he might have had what his counselor euphemistically refers to as an ‘episode’ if he’d put the damn thing on.

“I’m going to have to be okay, aren’t I? Can’t go loony toons today,” he says with a grimace. “ _You_ going to be okay?”

Arya squints back at him and sniffs slightly, giving him a terse little nod. “I’ll show them. I’m gonna be just like him. I’m gonna sign up as soon as I’m old enough.”

Jon dips his head lower. “Don’t let your mother hear you say that.” That’s the last thing Catelyn needs to worry about.

“I _am_ ,” Arya insists, her lower lip sticking out.

Sansa leans across him, covering the multitude of rubber bands on Arya’s wrist with a shaking hand. “Shut up. I don’t ever want to hear you say that again.”

She says it low enough that Jon doesn’t think anyone else’s heard and she wears a careful face that doesn’t betray the harsh tone of her voice, but Arya jerks her hand away roughly enough that someone might notice that something’s amiss amongst the Stark kids.

He turns to Sansa, her name on his lips, although he doesn’t know what he means to say. To comfort her? To tell her to let Arya be? To apologize for being the one to sit next to her, while her boyfriend sits three rows back? He and Sansa have never been close and there’s no natural ease between them, but before he can speak, she slips her hand into his and draws it into her lap, squeezing harder than he thought her graceful fingers could manage. He spends the first ten minutes of the service stiffly waiting to see if she’ll let go and when the jets roar overhead, he prays she won’t.

She doesn’t.

As the last line of _Taps_ echoes from across the cemetery, Sansa stands, forcing him to his feet as well. At least someone is with it enough to follow protocol, because for him, everything feels like he’s seeing it through water, blurred and slow. It’s the feeling of being separated, not engaged with the world around him that’s moving at half speed. His counselor says it’s disassociation, a coping mechanism he might be developing to deal with the anxiety to prevent himself from slipping into a full blown episode. It’s okay for now, but he needs to work at finding healthier coping methods.

It turns out that his counselor seems to think that feeling crazy should be a lot of work.

The honor guard has folded the flag, the empty shell cases have been slipped inside, and the highest ranking officer holds it out, saying words that Jon can’t seem to hear, as the officer presents it to Ned, Robb’s next of kin. He salutes and the crowd around them starts to shift, drifting away or moving forward to speak with the family, as befits their level of intimacy with the Starks.

He feels a tug at his hand, as the Baratheons and Lannisters swarm them with outstretched hands and fixed, oddly attractive frowns.  All except for Joffrey, who stands back, looking perfectly groomed and bored, as he runs his finger over his iPhone.

The tug is Sansa letting go. Jon releases her hand, as Cersei slips her arm around the younger woman’s narrow shoulders, pulling her in for a hug.

“If there’s anything we can do, sweetheart,” the woman says, but of course there isn’t. “You know we’ll be there for you.”

There isn’t anything anyone can do, because Robb is dead. Robb will never again make Sansa blush with his teasing. Arya will never play catch with him. Bran and Robb will never trade knock-knock jokes. Rickon never run screaming from Robb’s monster growl. Jon wasn’t there at his side to protect him and he’s never going to see his brother again.

He’s relieved that Cersei skips over him with a half smile to pat Arya on the head. She’s lucky Arya doesn’t growl back at her before her blonde head swivels and her attention lights upon Joffrey.

He’s a little prick and none of the rest of this crew is much better. A spike of anger jabs Jon right square in the chest and he knows he has to get away before he says or does something embarrassing. Muttering his excuses to no one in particular, since no one is paying him much mind, he places his hand on Sansa’s back, trying to slip behind her to make his escape.

“Joff, honey?” Cersei calls to her son, and Sansa twists, blindly groping for Jon’s hand, her fingers knotting with his.

“Don’t let go,” she implores, looking back at him with wide blue eyes. Tully blue, like Robb’s.

He can’t say no, Robb wouldn’t want him to say no. “I was going back to the limo.”

“Good. Take me with you,” she says with a relieved huff, reaching down for her black clutch.

“Daddy,” she says with a touch to her father’s elbow. “Jon is taking me back to the car.”

“Can I come?” Arya asks, pulling at Jon’s coat sleeve, and he can tell from the quiver in her voice that she’s about to lose her fight with her unspilt tears.

Arya wouldn’t want anyone to see her cry. He’s ready to argue Arya’s case, but he’s spared the effort.

“Take your sister with you,” Ned says and it’s all the approval they need.

The three of them hurry away, wending their way through straggling mourners that Sansa refuses to stop for, as they walk across the thick, spring grass, approaching the limo that will carry them away from this scene, as soon as Ned and his wife are allowed to put an end to the formalities and escape back to their home on the cold waters of the lake. Maybe he and Arya will sit on the swing. Maybe he’ll chop wood. Anything will be better than this crowd of well wishers.

Sansa’s not usually so abrupt in dealing with people, but he’s not himself either—hasn’t been for a while now—so he understands her rush to avoid all the puckered faces and extended hands,  until they’re at the limo and Jon pulls on the latch, opening the door. Sansa let’s go of his hand to lean against the car, her lip caught between her teeth, as Arya scrambles in first.

“Thank you,” Sansa sighs. He frowns, and she nods towards the people they’ve outpaced behind him. “For back there.”

“It was awful.” There aren’t really words for how awful. How shitty this whole thing really is.

“You rescued me,” she says, reaching down to pull one black heel and then the other off. She’s instantly four inches shorter, but still not much shorter than him. How did she manage in those towering heels, walking across the grass? Ygritte would have lasted five minutes in those heels and Sansa navigated a cemetery in them. She holds them in her left hand, letting them dangle from her fingers, and Jon stares down at her pink toes painted rusty red, curled into the grass.

“Hardly.”

“Well, that’s the way I’m going to remember it. But we should have grabbed Bran and Rickon.” She points her toe in the grass and then flexes it. “I couldn’t think back there, but that was stupid. I should go back and get them.”

She’s right. “I’ll go.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” he says, jerking his thumb towards the gravesite. “It’s hard to push Bran’s chair through this grass.”

He scrubs his face, preparing himself to reenter the fray, but before he can turn, she reaches up to grasp his shoulder. “I’m glad you’re here. Robb can’t be,” she says on a bubbled up laugh that sounds like she’s teetering on the edge of a sob. “Can he? He can’t ever be here again.”

“No.”

She pulls him towards her, pulls him into a hug he’s not expecting and his hand flattens against the limo’s window to prevent himself from crashing into her. She smells like perfume and floral shampoo. There have been a lot of hugs today, but none for him. He clears his throat, surprised at the feeling that wells up in his chest, threatening to choke him, when he lets his arm wrap around her narrow back.

Her nose bumps his collar, as she whispers, “If he can’t be here, it’s good that you are. He liked you best out of all of us.”

It could very well be a snide remark born of jealousy and anger, and Jon suddenly fears that this hug, this extension of warmth between himself and Robb’s sister, is merely so much bullshit like the Lannisters and Baratheons and their empty condolences, but then she presses a kiss to his neck, half of it on the stiffly starched collar of his shirt and he _knows_. Sansa may be practiced and perfect, but she’s also a genuinely sweet girl. She means it. She wants him to be comforted by the thought that there was someone in this world that loved him best.

But then, Robb’s gone, same as his mother and Ygritte.

He wants to tell her that Robb loved her fiercely. That he talked about rearranging Joff’s face just because he knew the unbearable little shit wasn’t good enough for her. He wants to tell her that Robb loved them all.

But Jon’s not good with words. So he turns his feet back towards the crowd to bring Sansa’s remaining brothers back to her. He can do that much for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow [me](http://justadram.tumblr.com) for teasers. Don’t forget [Sansa’s tumblr](http://makepinklemonade.tumblr.com). And if you’re curious: my fancasting for the [Starks](http://justadram.tumblr.com/post/49032537298/a-city-of-fortune-and-failure-fancast), [Lannisters](http://justadram.tumblr.com/post/49123780912/a-city-of-fortune-and-failure-fancast-for-the), and [Baratheons](http://justadram.tumblr.com/post/50666160738/a-city-of-fortune-and-failure-fancast-for-the). Of course, you can imagine them as the _Game of Thrones_ actors or whoever you might prefer, but these folks are the appropriate age for their ACoFaF roles and their hair color is canon compliant without resorting to a wonky khaleesi wig—sometimes a tricky thing to achieve.


	3. Tyrion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s not unique in feeling this way, but funerals are one of Tyrion’s least favorite affairs, unless it’s a wake with plenty of booze, which this wasn’t. He knew exactly what kind of funeral this would be. It was only out of respect for the Starks that he made the trip out here. Now he’s ready to forget.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some Lannister snark for this chapter. Thanks for all the kudos and comments. They're food for the soul.

Chapter Two: Tyrion

His brother tucks away his cell phone, leaning to the side to slide it into the pocket of his expensive wool slacks, as Tyrion motions for the waitress, who is making her way through the black leather chairs in the lobby of the Barrowlands Hotel, where he and Jaime have been drinking since the conclusion of the Stark boy’s funeral.

“What can I get for you gentlemen?”

In New York, an upscale hotel like this would have the waitresses dressed in something a little more chic than the ill fitting black polo and khakis this girl’s sporting. But this isn’t New York. This is almost as far from New York as you can get, which is probably why the Starks, born and raised in this wholesome environment, are such strange, foreignly honest creatures in the city.

“Two more of these, please,” Tyrion says, rattling his empty glass of whiskey.

“On the rocks?” the girl inquires, her eyes nervously darting over him, as if she doesn’t know where to look.

His being a little person probably makes her uncomfortable. It often makes people afraid to really look at him, as if he might mistake it for gawking. It’s almost worse than the stares of ignorant people to have people who don’t want to give offense carefully staring above his head somewhere.

It’s not his job to put her at ease, but he smiles at her. She’s a pretty girl even without the right clothes.

“And a glass of red wine,” Jaime adds.

She paws at the black pocketed apron tied around her hips but comes up empty. “Sorry, I thought I had… Do you want me to bring the wine list?”

Jaime runs his hand through his hair, as he considers for a moment. “No, just bring me whatever you have that doesn’t taste like shit.”

His brother’s smile and wink undoes whatever offense he might have otherwise caused—a benefit of having reaped the best of what the Lannister genetics had to offer. Tyrion is often coarse and careless with his words too, but no one is as forgiving about it. At least no one will ever be able to say Tyrion Lannister has traded on his good looks.

She titters, looking flustered by his brother’s meaningless attentions. “I’ll be right back with those drinks.”

Tyrion waggles his finger at his brother. “Careful, Jaime.” He stops to tease whatever whiskey might still be left melting amongst the ice onto his tongue. It’s a fruitless attempt, which only succeeds in getting ice to bump his lips. “I don’t believe these good Midwestern folk use such godless language. I’ve never heard Ned Stark so much as say damn.”

“She didn’t seem to mind. Anyway, feel free to tip well to apologize for the manners of this unrepentant heathen,” Jaime says, as he leans forward to deposit his empty glass on the low metal coffee table that sits between them. “Regardless, this next drink is the last one.”

Tyrion slides his empty glass onto the table to join his brother’s. “For you maybe. I intend on getting good and drunk.”

He’s not unique in feeling this way, but funerals are one of Tyrion’s least favorite affairs, unless it’s a wake with plenty of booze, which this wasn’t. He knew exactly what kind of funeral this would be. It was only out of respect for the Starks that he made the trip out here. Now he’s ready to forget.

Although he’s only just put it away, Jaime pulls his phone partially out of his pocket again, checking for something. By the line that forms between his brows, he looks as if he’s been disappointed.

He clears his throat, his gaze cutting back up at Tyrion. “Yes, the last for me.”

“You’re abandoning me to drink alone?”

“That I am,” Jaime says, as he lets the phone slip back into his pocket.

“Plans?” Tyrion inquires. “In beautiful White Harbor?”

There’s little to do here but eat fudge and ice cream or rent a touring bike, as far as Tyrion can tell. It’s not exactly a bustling metropolis. Tyrion’s not sure what Joffrey and Myrcella are doing to entertain themselves, but this isn’t a town with much to offer the young or those who like to _think_ they are young like Jaime.

“God, no.”

“Good. Leaves me free pick of the White Harbor ladies. I hate sharing.”

Not that he has any intention of indulging with Shae back in the city, but there was a time not so long ago that he would have done his best to find someone, anyone to sleep with him tonight, so he wouldn’t have to be alone. His best was often not good enough, however. Tyrion has spent a good amount of time alone.

“Do you have extensive experience in sharing a woman with another man?” Jaime asks with one raised brow.

No, but his brother does. Oh how his brother knows what it is like to share a woman.

“You know, there’s a better kind of threesome,” his brother says with a grin.

“As if you’d know.”

His brother's furtive arrangement with Cersei and her oblivious husband, Robert, is much less adventurous than all that. Jaime might be the good looking Lannister brother, but his sexual experience is rather limited. Tyrion guesses that happens when you meet the woman you’re going to love for the rest of your life when you’re fourteen.

“You’re welcome to whatever trouble you can cook up, little brother. I’ve got work I’ve got to get to back in the room.”

Tyrion knows that’s a bald faced lie, but he lets it go with a crook of his brow and a snort.

Out of the two of them, Jaime is the one with the executive office with a view and Tyrion is the one with the brains for books at Lannister Mercantile, toiling away without thanks in a hallway where he won’t much get in the way. Nevertheless, Jaime is the face of the company, the eldest son, Tywin Lannister’s pride and hope for the future.

“You know, I feel terribly sorry for the Starks. I can only imagine how they feel.” As if their future has been suddenly cut short.

Jaime brushes the leg of his pants, removing some invisible lint. “No you can’t. You’ve drunk too much and are feigning empathy. It’s in bad taste.”

Tyrion frowns. “It’s not entirely feigned. I might not understand entirely what Ned and Cat are going through, I might not be a parent, but I’m also not completely heartless. This isn’t something from which they’ll recover with any rapidity, I’d imagine.”

Tyrion isn’t a father, but he knows what it is like to be the second son and to see what genuine parental approval looks like from the outside. Ned Stark probably felt as strongly about Robb as his father does about Jaime. Losing their firstborn is not only the death of a child, but the death of whatever hopes they had for his future life; it’s the sort of blow which even the stoic Starks will find difficult to weather with grace.

“No, probably not. The Starks are good people,” Jaime says, although there is an emptiness to his voice that betrays his lack of real interest in the Stark family’s troubles.

“This is what happens when we send children off to war, I’m afraid. A terrible waste.”

Jaime shakes his head. “It’s a little bit of an overstatement to call Robb Stark a child. Cersei and I had been married four years by the time we were his age.”

“And so mature and adept at it that you were quite nearly divorced.” It was only their father’s fat wallet that allowed Jaime to play house with his bride. There was very little actual adult behavior taking place in Jaime and Cersei’s apartment, besides the tedium of keeping babies alive.

Jaime shrugs. “I’ve only really been good at two things.” One was baseball. Jaime was extremely promising, a successful pitcher in high school with scouts showing marked interest in number 18’s talents, but an injury late in his senior year put an end to any dreams of his playing ball—unfortunate, but for the best, in their father’s opinion, since he always wanted Jaime to succeed him at Lannister Mercantile. Tyrion knows better than to ask what the other thing Jaime excells at is: brothers don’t need to share everything. “Being a responsible husband isn’t one of them.”

“I suppose my point is you wouldn’t want Joff to sign up with the Corps, would you? Another year and he’d be the same age as Robb and could be shot down over Afghanistan or Iran or Pakistan or wherever it is the government decides we need to send troops next.”

“Joff would never sign up.”

The thought makes Tyrion smile. “No. Do something selfless for his country? I’d bet my inheritance against it.”

His nephew is a brat. Worse than a brat. His behavior at the funeral was appalling. Cersei begged him to share his sympathies with the Starks, the parents of his pretty girlfriend, who he'd bizarrely ignored. She even offered him a bribe if he would just say _something_. Tyrion ended Cersei’s pointless wheedling by snatching Joffrey’s iPhone from his hand and stomping on it, cracking the screen.

_There. Now you have no excuse not to open your mouth, go over there, and say something that doesn’t make me want to smack you for once._

Jaime says nothing to come to his son’s defense; he said nothing at the cemetery either, but then, Jaime has always been disinterested at best, neglectful at worst, when it comes to his children. Perhaps if he’d taken some interest, his son wouldn’t be so disgustingly spoiled. It’s a miracle Myrcella has turned out as well as she has or that little Tommen appears to be so naturely good natured.

Instead of speaking up on Joff’s behalf, Jaime drums his fingers on his knee. Tyrion suspects the restless motion is not just a sign of boredom or disinterest: Jaime is anxious about something.

“You want to check your phone again?” Tyrion asks.

Jaime’s answer is a redirection. “They were proud enough of their son and that Snow kid six months ago, when they could trot them out in their uniforms for the voters.”

Yes, Robb’s not the only fallen soldier. The entire Stark family looked pale and sleep deprived with trembling lips and dark circles under their eyes, but Jon Snow looked particularly miserable. He’d signed up, probably thinking he’d come home a hero after defending the weak and spreading democracy or whatever corn fed logic they raised these boys on, but it is no well kept secret that Jon Snow was discharged after the rest of his squad was blown up. To look at the boy, you could see that it wears on him. He didn’t come home in a bag or missing a limb, but he came home broken all the same. The death of his brother will do him no favors in recovering his wits.

What a terrible sort of irony that all the family expectations will now be piled on Jon’s shoulders, when he is least able to rise to them. Hopefully he won’t be required to participate in the fall election.

“There’s no way Ned will lose his bid for reelection now,” Tyrion observes. “Good news for Robert.  Good news for Cersei.”

The Baratheons have considerable interest in the success of Ned’s political career, since Baratheon Industries sells to the U.S. government the very weapons that potentially killed Robb Stark. Robert depends on that friendship.

“Who would vote against the honorable Senator?” Jaime agrees.

“Although, to be fair, Ned Stark would trade an election victory for his son. He’s probably seriously rethinking having sent his boy off to war. An honorable death doesn’t make the death any less painful.”

“There's no such thing as an honorable death. They're all equally pointless. But no one forced Robb Stark to enlist,” Jaime corrects him, his knee beginning to bounce with mounting impatience. “Not even his flag lapel pin wearing father.”

“No, no one forced him, but there were expectations. The Starks always serve their country. I hardly think he imagined any other path would be acceptable.”

No one expects much of Tyrion, being the family disappointment from the moment he came squalling into this world, an arrival that cost his beautiful mother—known only to him in photographs—her life, but he’s still trying to impress them all. Hopeless, really. His lot is probably no different from Jon Snow’s, son of no one.

“There are always expectations,” Jaime agrees. “Mine have me landed me counting beans for the rest of my life.”

Jaime doesn’t work hard, but he didn’t work at all until Cersei left him. Apparently, joining the family business seemed like the right move for his brother to make after she walked out. The idea of Cersei finding solace with a man more successful than him must have lit a fire underneath him. Not a fire that burned particularly brightly—what he wanted was to be a baseball player and nothing else but Cersei and that dream much mattered—but he’d made some effort at amounting to something.

“Aw, come on. It’s not as bad as all that.”

His intention is to remind his brother that Jaime has the world at his fingertips. He already has everything and he could have any woman he wants too, just some of the perks of the job, his handsome face, and their shared last name, but he doesn’t manage to utter a word of it. He’s distracted by the sight of Cersei emerging from behind the hotel elevator’s silver sliding doors.

She’s changed out of her conservative funeral attire and into a white pencil skirt, mile high nude stilettos, and a loosely knit sweater that he can make out her bra through. Her hair is perfectly glossy, not a hair out of place, and she moves with an assurance in her superiority that Tyrion envies.

Jaime’s head turns without Tyrion having to announce Cersei’s appearance. It’s like there’s an invisible cord between his brother and Cersei, drawing him along in her wake. Jaime just can’t escape her. It’s been that way since they were all teenagers and Jaime spent too much time fucking Cersei and not enough time studying. Not that his brother would ever _want_ to escape her grasp. Tyrion might be the only one in the family that would rather never see her exquisite face again. Even his father seems to admire her steely determination to get her way.

His brother stands like a gentleman or a good approximation of one, as Cersei slips past them and takes the empty chair between the two brothers. Jaime might be the friendliest ex-husband a woman could want, but Tyrion is just a former in-law. So he chooses to stretch one arm over the low back of the chair, refusing to acknowledge her unwanted presence.

“I hate this place,” she says under her breath. “Did you order me a glass of wine?”

Jaime’s distraction, his obsessive checking of his phone has been all about his bitch of an ex-wife. Of course it was her, ruining things. That’s been the case for years.

“Yeah, it’s coming,” Jaime assures her.

“Not fast enough,” she sighs, lounging back into her chair until she’s one long line from the tip of her rounded toed shoe to the top of her head.

“You didn’t have to come, sis.”

Cersei turns her green eyes on him, her blonde lashes dyed black fluttering in faux outrage. “Don’t call me that. I’m not your sister.”

Maybe that was the worst part of being married to Jaime: having him as a brother. “No?  I was under the impression that your relations with my brother weren’t severed.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “You know they are.”

“For how long?” Tyrion asks with a burst of laughter that he gives full breath to. Waving his hand to shake off her scowl, he begs in false contrition, “No, forgive me. I’m only joking and a bad joke at that.”

Cersei pushes her blonde hair back away from her smooth forehead with the back of her fingers and sniffs dismissively, “No need to explain. I’m well acquainted with your inappropriate behavior.”

“Yes, well, I only meant that there’s no reason to make yourself miserable by making the trip out here to God's country. I’m sure the Starks could have done without you. We could have all done without you.”

Maybe not Jaime, but he’s only watching the two of them trade barbs with a smirk on his face. Presumably he’s not bothered enough by his brother’s antics to defend Cersei, any more than he was pressed to say something in defense of Joff a few moments ago. Of course, Cersei can actually defend herself. Tyrion knows that a bully like Joffrey folds under the attack of a worthy opponent. His nephew is a coward. Cersei has her faults, but cowardice is not one of them.

“ _Robert_ wanted me here.”

Unlikely. The only person who might dislike Cersei more than he does is probably her unfaithful husband.

“My mistake. And how is your dear husband? We didn’t get a chance to chat. Will he be joining us for a cocktail?”

“He’s asleep,” she says, curling her fingers in to examine her manicure, and Tyrion can’t help but notice how Jaime’s eyes rake over his ex-wife at her words.

This must be their agreed upon signal: Robert is asleep. If this is her little coded message for him, Tyrion knows what will be coming soon.

Tyrion shifts in his chair, moving closer to Cersei. “Worn out from the grief?”

Cersei crosses one long, lean, tanned leg over the other. “Or he’s already indulged in more than one cocktail. Like you, Tyrion.”

“I’m just exceptionally dedicated to the craft of imbibing, but it only stands to reason that Robert had a drink or two. The young man was named after him after all. I’m sure he took a keen interest in Robb Stark.”

He didn’t. Tyrion’s not sure what kind of man Robert once was to earn Ned’s friendship, but he’s not that man anymore. Now he’s more interested in women and wine and spending his money than he is in anything else.

Jaime opens his mouth as if he is finally about to add something to their petty, little disagreement that has been dragging on in some form or another for years, but Cersei clears her throat and nods towards the waitress, who approaches again with their three drinks perched atop a bar tray, putting an end to whatever light Jaime intended to shine on Robert’s impressive depth of feeling.

“There you go: two whiskeys and a red wine,” the waitress says, setting the drinks down one at a time. “What room should I put this on? Or would you like to pay with a credit card?”

“Room 132,” Tyrion instructs, as the woman bends at the hip to collect their empty glass. “My treat.”

“How generous,” Cersei flatly says, as her slender fingers wrap around the bowl of the glass.

“I might be short, but I have deep pockets.”

She swirls the wine, as if it is a vintage worth savoring, which Tyrion doubts it is, despite Jaime’s instructions to pick something palatable. They don’t know their wine here. Last night they were offered something called _cherry_ _wine_.

“True, you do. It’s your finest quality. Speaking of which, where is dear Shae?”

“She’s at home.” In the new apartment in Brooklyn—she doesn’t like the location—he’s paying for. He had offered to fly her out with him, make a weekend out of it, but she showed no enthusiasm for the plan and he didn’t press.

“She’s an attractive woman. I should warn her that your father doesn’t particularly favor you. She might have the wrong idea about what she stands to inherit, should you ever propose.”

“No plans to ask her or anyone else to marry me at present. I’m a dedicated bachelor. But go ahead, Cersei. You can try to scare her away.”

“It would only be a friendly warning.”

“It would be a waste of your time. Not all women sleep their way to the top.”

“Oooh,” she coos into her glass, her glossy red lips parting just enough to take a sip. “He’s trying to hurt me, Jaime,” she says with a roll of her eyes. “You’ll excuse me if I don’t care what you think about me, when the only thing you’ve ever accomplished is being born into the right family.”

“You’re right. I’ve never done anything of merit.”

He taps his stubby nose with his finger, watching as Cersei nearly finishes her wine in one tight looking swallow. He’s touched a nerve. “You know I kid because I love. You’re one of the family, Cersei.”

_Forever_ a part of the family, Tyrion fears, and not just because she’s the mother of Jaime’s three children—two if you were brave enough to questionCersei on it, but little towheaded Tommen’s as much Jaime’s kid as Joff and Myrcella are.

“You’ll have to excuse me. I have to head back up to the room. Work calls,” Jaime says to Cersei, and there it is, the thing Tyrion has been waiting for: the choreographed disappearance act. “Play nice,” he warns, knocking back half of his new glass of whiskey with a grimace.

“Really?” Tyrion sighs. They’re really going to let this play out before him as if he is totally unaware? Do they truly think he’s that stupid?

“Really.” Jaime stands and sticks his hands in his pockets, rocking slightly back on his heels. “But you two should have another drink for me in my absence, since I’m going to be chained to my laptop.”

That better not be a euphemism.

Tyrion shakes his head, as he watches Jaime stride towards the elevator. He squints at Cersei. “How long are you going to sit here pretending before you join him?”

She swallows the remainder of her wine and turns a frozen smile his way. “We can sit together like friends. Can’t we?”

“‘Friends’ is a little optimistic, don’t you think?”

Her fingers trace the edge of her skirt, as she wets her lips, staring back at him unblinkingly. “Perhaps, but I do think we should all work together to make sure our businesses succeed. Don’t you? Work together as family? I’m sure it’s what your father would want.”

Her questions worry him, and he doesn’t like that she’s invoked his father. It worries him enough that he has to take a slug of his drink before responding, “I’d do anything for my family. If that means getting along with you, Cersei, of course I will.”

“Good. I’m glad to hear that.”

I’m not, he thinks, inwardly squirming. There’s nothing about this leading conversation that puts him at ease.

“I wouldn’t want to have you get in the way of your brother’s success. Of the family’s success.”

_Jaime’s_ success. Right.

She doesn’t say it, but he knows what Cersei’s primary concern is these days and it’s not Jaime. They might still fuck, but she gave up on him a long time ago, otherwise she would have never left him, her ticket to a life she never thought would be hers. Now everything is for Joff. Like the mother lioness she is, she focuses almost exclusively on what kind of legacy her son will inherit, scraping for it, so that he doesn't have to lift a finger.

That’s the rub of it. Whatever Tyrion does for Lannister Mercantile, Joffrey Lannister will stand to reap the benefits, and the last thing he wants to do is help that unthankful little snit get anywhere in life. No, the last thing he wants is to one day find himself under his thumb, working for the monster, but ensuring that won't be the case is trickier than smashing a cell phone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're following [Sansa](http://makepinklemonade.tumblr.com), you might have noticed that [Margaery](http://ahighgardenrose.tumblr.com) has turned up too.
> 
> For those who might be curious, Jaime's POV is up next. *waggles brows*


	4. Jaime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She insists on always making it about the children, when all he wants to talk about is the two of them. Cersei and Jaime—that is family, that is what he understands. Everything else is a distraction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the follows, favs, kudos, and especially the kind comments, which are really encouraging and help drive me along.

Chapter Three: Jaime

Jaime rubs the white hotel towel roughly over his hair with his right hand until his hair no longer lies slick and wet against his head, balls the towel up, and tosses it on the black granite bathroom sink before hitting the lights and sauntering barefoot from the room, from white, cool tile, to plush beige carpet. When he came up from the lobby, he cranked the room’s air up, making the difference between the humid, heated air of the bathroom after a hot shower marked, particularly only with a wet bath towel slung low over his hips. He goes to the controls to adjust it so that Cersei won’t have an excuse for keeping any of her clothes on.

He’s used to fucking his ex-wife quick with her skirt up around her waist and her panties pulled to the side, but he has every intention of taking advantage of the anonymity of this Michigan hotel room and the time afforded him by Robert’s drunken stupor.

He’s only just changed the setting, when three soft knocks rattle the door.

Cersei.

He doesn’t hurry to get it, though his heart is already beginning to pound within his chest in anticipation of having his lips on her and her legs wrapped around his waist. She’ll comment on his eagerness if he opens the door too quickly just as he would have commented if she followed him from the lobby too soon. They both want the same thing, but there is this game they play, that they have always played, and there are rules that must be observed. The rules extend the battle, drawing it out until they’re at each other tooth and nail. What Jaime came to learn early on is that the fight is nearly as good as the kill.

He makes a show of only opening the door partway. He leans his shoulder into the doorframe, blocking her entrance, while she stands in the hall with her red lips pursed.

He raises his brows and lazily pulls his lower lip through his teeth, as he slowly checks her out. “Cersei. Are you lost?”

“Don’t be stupid. Someone could walk by.”

She puts her hand square in the middle of his chest and pushes him backward into the room. He allows her to win this battle, giving way to the pressure of her hand and standing back as she breezes past him, her fingers grazing the hairs on his chest with the briefest of contact. He can smell her perfume as she strides into the room, all bold confidence, and sinks down without invitation on white down comforter draped over the king sized bed.

He kicks the door shut behind him, shaking the gilded mirror that hangs on the wall, and walks over to the silver ice bucket, pretending to ignore her presence. But he’s still watching. He’s always watching. It sometimes feels as if he was born watching her. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see her reaching down to slip her red soled heels off, revealing one manicured foot and then another.

 _Fuck_. Everything about her is sexy, even the arch of her damn foot.

He drops three round, hollow cubes into each tumbler and grabs for the chilled vodka he had room service deliver. She lies back on the bed and stares up at the ceiling, as he pours first one and then another drink. Two doubles. He picks up both glasses and without seemingly needing to glance up at him, she stretches out a hand to take one from him.

She drinks more than she used to. But, he would drown himself if he was married to Robert Baratheon.

Drink in hand, he wanders silently over the carpet to the window, which is bathed in the late afternoon sun. It’s the perfect light to see every little golden hair on her body. Under his body she’ll be all tan skin against white cotton of the bed linens once they stop this waiting, this excruciating torture of feigned indifference.

He hears the ice clink in her glass and he brings his own to his lips, staring out over the grey water of the cold lake.

She is the first to break the silence, acknowledging his presence—the first step in ending their stalemate. “I had a little chat with your brother. About family.”

Not what he was hoping to talk about. “Family,” he repeats, between slow sips.

“Yes, I think we need to work together. Lannister Mercantile and Baratheon Industries.”

Jaime reaches up to scratch his brow with his index finger. “A business proposition.” Which she took to my brother, not to me. Shouldn’t she come to me to handle something so important?

“Not quite. It was more of a suggestion for shared prosperity.”

“And how did that little suggestion go over?”

“I don’t think your brother knows the meaning of family.”

He rocks on his heels, jostling the ice in his glass as he looks down at his feet. “Maybe he’s confused by your insistence that anyone named Baratheon could possibly be our family.”

“Joffrey inherits the one and Tommen the other. That’s what makes this a family issue, you know that.”

Joffrey and Tommen. Tommen and Joffrey. She insists on always making it about the children, when all he wants is to talk about is the two of them. Cersei and Jaime—that is family, that is what he understands. Everything else is a distraction. Especially her disrespectful husband.

He clutches his glass tighter. “I think we could all do without Robert. Even you.”

“Lower your voice. These walls are paper thin,” she hisses.

He turns around, stalking towards her, where she sits coolly on the bed, one long leg crossed over the other, her drink held out from where her elbow rests on her hip. He sets his own drink down on the shiny ebony hotel desk, leaving the vodka largely untouched, and comes the last few steps to the bed, where she waits with her eyes slightly narrowed in challenge.

He stands, feet planted on either side of her legs, and bends down until he’s balanced on one hand and she’s forced to lean back, her glass tipping and spilling colorless liquid on the comforter as her neck bows. He brushes the shell of her ear with his nose and whispers, “Let them hear.”

Never satisfied to suffer a reaction—a prickle of goose bumps along her arms from his breath against her neck—without prompting something similar in him, Cersei presses the cold glass against the heated skin of his chest, making him flinch.

“Don’t be so impossibly careless. My room with Robert is only one room down.”

He swears to himself then and there that she’s going to scream loud enough to wake anyone who might be sleeping this afternoon. Even if that happens to be her fat husband snoring one floor below them.

“Get rid of him,” Jaime hums against her skin. “Divorce him.”

She wraps her slim fingers around his neck, holding him back, as one perfect nail scratches over his skin. Her green eyes, a shade strikingly similar to his own, stare back at him. “What about Tommen?”

Tommen, Tommen, Tommen. “What about him?”

She rolls her eyes. “He won’t inherit his share of Baratheon Industries until he’s twenty-five. You know how Renly hates me. He’d be whispering lies in Robert’s ear in the meantime, endangering Tommen’s place.”

Lies or just the truth, which is just as damning in this case. There might be a paternity test if Robert’s younger brother got his way. That’s what she’s afraid of. She has this dream for her boys, which involves the pair of them dominating the two most powerful companies in New York City, probably with her dominating them both, when Jaime’s dream has always been about her. The truth would place all of that in danger, although Jaime doesn't see how the loss of Baratheon Industries would be so terrible a fate for their chubby little boy.

If the divorce and Tommen’s paternity caused a scandal they didn’t want to ride out in the city, they could leave, use some of the family money to live in the islands and forget the rest. They could take Myrcella and Tommen. He could scout for some ball club. No one would know them.

“I’ll see to it that Tommen is taken care of,” he promises through gritted teeth, sick of this conversation, sick of anything besides being inside of her, but he’s barely said it when Cersei throatily laughs, her long neck tipping back in amusement, as if he’s said the funniest thing she’s heard all day.

He bites at the slope of her neck, cutting off her infuriating amusement. He bites hard, taking some satisfaction in the give of her flesh under his teeth. He still has the power to affect her. She lets her glass drop—it rolls and hits the carpet with a dull thud—and then her hands are at his towel, pulling it loose, but even as it puddles on the floor and she digs her fingers into his ass, she scolds, “No marks, Jaime.”

When she was his alone, when they beloned to each other, he didn’t need to mark her, and now that he shares her, he’s not allowed.

He grunts, as he fists her delicate sweater, yanking it over her head, exposing her smooth skin and black lacy bra he could only just glimpse through the loose knit of her sweater, teasing him ever since she appeared in the lobby. “Skirt. Off,” he demands, and her face is appropriately serious as she slips a hand behind her back to unzip it.

Her hand moves so slowly that he can hear each individual tooth give way, and then she stops, when the zipper reaches the seam, one brow arched in defiance, as she leans back on bent elbows. He could stand naked before her and make her wait, leave her to make another move to advance their mutual seduction, but he’s done with this game of waiting and wanting.

He grabs her by the hips, pulling her to the edge of the bed. Tugging at her loosened skirt, he hauls it down over her ass and hips. He expects that she’ll be wearing little matching panties, a lacy scrap of fabric begging to be kissed and then tossed aside, because she’s always perfectly put together right down to her lingerie, but when the skirt slides past her knees and is kicked free of her ankles, there are no panties—black or otherwise.

“Fuck me,” he murmurs.

“That’s the idea,” she agrees with a smirk, as she falls back in the bed with her legs invitingly spread for him.

The point of today’s rendezvous was that they’d have all the time in the world, but Jaime is seized by such an intense need not to know where he stops and Cersei begins, that he dives in as if they have only a few stolen minutes, while Robert is distracted by a secretary or waitress he wants to fuck.

It’s all need and no finesse, when he leans over her, pushing the cups of her bra up over her breasts so he can close his mouth around one pebbled, rosy nipple. Looking up at her, he can see annoyance twisting her lips at the impatience that has left her bra trapped tightly around her chest warring with the pleasure of his mouth on her and his teeth scraping her nipple, but the pressure of his cock against her stomach is enough to have him growing hard, which is what he needs to be inside of her, so that she’ll forget any and all aggravation.

Things only really make sense when they’re fucking. That’s been the case since he took her virginity in the men's changing room of his father’s tennis club after she’d dressed in his polo and white pants on a lark that ended with her sucking at his pulse point and grabbing him through his boxers.

He’s in a heady rush, but so is she. Her nails digging into his shoulders—marking him, because he’s always hers to be marked—and her heel coming up to press sharply into his lower back are proof of her need for him, so he grabs her hip, angles her against him, and pushes into her. There’s no resistance to his hard thrust. She’s wet and hot and it’s as perfect as always. This much is always right.

She agrees with his wordless assessment, gasping yes into the crown of his head as their bodies meet in the fast pace he's set, a pace that makes her breasts bounce and brush against his chest with each smack of their thighs. He worships each breast, teases each nipple, making her moan and thrash. He kisses between them, licking a slow path upwards until her bra prevents him from going any farther and he groans in frustration.

“You’re the one who had no patience,” she archly reminds him.

He only wants her exclaiming her pleasure, so he kisses her hard, but she bites—she always bites—and he bites back. She tastes like vodka and wine and lipstick. Her skin is more familiar, more her. Fisting what’s left of her hair—since she cut it, his is nearly as long as hers, a fact that sometimes makes her tease that from behind they might be confused for each other—in his hand, he twists her head to the side, so he might finish his tongue’s trail to the sensitive spot behind her ear, while he continues his relentless drive into her until he can taste salt on her skin and he’s panting with the effort of holding back his orgasm.

Her damn nails sting, distracting him from the coiling pleasure in his lower belly, and he knocks them off with a jerk of his shoulders, pausing in his thrusts to grasp her hands, stretch them up above her head, and pin them to the comforter.

“You’re going to come for me,” he growls, letting loose of her to stand upright. “We’re going to come together.”

Her legs wrap tightly around him, her ankles locking behind him, not allowing him much room to maneuver, but his fingers do the rest of the work, rubbing circles against her until he can feel her tightening around him and the rest is inevitable. He can finally give in to his own need, letting his hips snap fast and uneven against her.

She comes, thanking God, who she has no faith in, and he empties inside of her on a string of curses, allowing gravity to take his head back with his eyes closed, while his toes curl into the carpet. It’s a rush so good, it almost feels like a punch in the gut. He can barely stand, as he twitches once more inside of her, his knees suddenly feeling like Jello.

He withdraws from her and semen spills out before he lowers her flat to the bed and collapses alongside her with his hand flopped over his pounding heart.

He should have used a condom. Joffrey was a mistake, an accident of youth, but there have been no mistakes since. Even Tommen was planned. But if something needs to be done about his recklessness, Cersei will know what to do.

“You might try shouting my name, you know,” he teases, letting his head roll to the side to smile at her on a heavy exhalation.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Course I would.”

She frowns. “That was careless.” He assumes she means that he didn’t put on a condom, until she adds, “You better hope no one heard us.”

He scrubs his face. Not seconds later and she already feels too far away, the connection already a thing of the past, as she tugs her bra back down over her breasts and sits up to search for her discarded skirt.

“I don’t care what anyone thinks,” he insists wearily.

“You would after he ruined us,” she says, grabbing for her sweater. “He’s Robert Baratheon, Jaime. He’s the king of military industry. You don’t think he could do it?”

Maybe Cersei’s bore of a husband could ruin them, maybe he could ruin everything, even Lannister Mercantile, but the problem is Jaime just doesn’t care one way or the other, so long as he ends up with Cersei.

“I could take a quick ride on the elevator, knock on your hotel room door, and end this nonsense, and then we could see how it all plays out.”

Her eyes dart to him, as she stands to step into her skirt and zip it back up, while he lies there, his penis softening against his stomach. He’s seen this look on her face before. Cersei hates to be afraid, hates any sign of weakness in herself and others, but fear is etched on her face. She looks at him as if she isn’t sure which wire to cut to disarm him.

She stands for a moment, frozen, her clothing not quite straight and her hair no longer its usual smooth style, and then something shifts in her, some other, stronger impulse takes control.

She takes control of him—it’s what she always does—as she shimmies her skirt up higher around her thighs and kneels on the bed, crawling over his body until her thighs cage his shoulders and her fingers weave through his hair, tilting his head forward towards her body.

“Let me handle, Robert, darling, and you just take care of me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When there are more than a few days break in updates, I'm likely to post a teaser to my [tumblr](http://justadram.tumblr.com). You can also follow [Sansa](http://makepinklemonade.tumblr.com) and [Margaery](http://ahighgardenrose.tumblr.com). Feel free to contact them with questions or whatever you might have on your mind.
> 
> Next up is Cat's POV, as the Starks head back to NYC, minus one senator, who is going back to Washington.


	5. Catelyn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They’re going back home, but Robb won’t be there waiting for them. There’s no real rush.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Red Wedding for me is about a mother's loss and the madness that comes upon her in those final moments. After watching Sunday's emotional episode, I found myself faced with writing the Cat POV chapter I've had planned for over a month, following the funeral of her eldest. I hope this chapter in some small way gives voice to that pain.
> 
> Thank you to mrstater for looking over this chapter and assuring me it wasn't entirely off the mark.

Chapter Four: Catelyn

A private plane is the sort of expense that while Ned can afford for their family, he would never countenance as an extravagance the average American could never enjoy. When Ned left Michigan three days after the funeral, he flew commercial back to D.C. and they would be doing the same if Robert didn’t insist upon their taking his plane. Cat would have declined if the Lannisters were going to be onboard with them, but they’d flown home the day after the funeral, Robert assured them.

 _I wouldn’t stick you in a steel tube 20,000 feet up with that lot_ , Robert insisted over the phone.

Still Ned hesitated.

 _It’s too much, Ned, asking your wife and children to go through that circus at JFK after everything. Stop being so principled and accept the damn offer_.

For once, Cat was inclined to agree with the man, so Ned agreed with a little gentle urging. Arrangements were made and the Baratheon plane was sent back from New York for them.

It’s a true blessing, when Cat loads her family into the plane, shepherding them up its metal steps with her dark sunglasses shading her eyes from the spring sun, because she isn’t forced to interact with gate agents or flight attendants and she can just try to focus on her children.

The ones who are left to her.

She rolls over after sleepless nights, reminding herself of each of her remaining children, counting off their names and visualizing their faces, hoping to hold back the madness that lurks in her darker moments, when she can think of nothing but her dead boy. Robb was such a sweet baby, a good baby. She’d assumed all babies were as easy and good as her boy and girl until Arya was born.

Some more difficult than others, they’re all special to her, but Robb was her first. The first to feed at her breast and learn his alphabet at her table. The first to test her nerve and teach her the meaning of real patience. The pain at losing him is unlike anything she’s ever experienced—like a knife that has slit her open but refuses to bleed her dry and usher in a blissful peace. It is blinding, all consuming, and yet, she can’t give in to it.

Ned needs me to be strong. The children need me to be strong. I owe it to my family.

Her father was at the funeral, looking decrepit and every bit his age. Her uncle was there too. They’re both strong men, the kind of men who have always done their duty. The kind of men she would be happy to be compared to. Her sister Lysa made the trip and her little brother Edmure, but as much as she loves them both, Cat knows better than to draw from their example in her trials. Edmure—the consummate bachelor—doesn’t know what commitment or sacrifice means and she certainly doesn’t want to end up zonked out on meds like Lysa, who hovers around her son, spoiling him until he’s become the most unbearably spoiled brat, since she lost her husband last year. She thought Lysa with her shared loss might be someone she could lean on, but it didn’t take long to see that she’ll find no comfort there.

Cat absentmindedly puts her hand on Rickon’s head. She knows he’s stalled, running in place on the steps of the plane to make a hollow metallic sound, but she can’t make herself urge him forward. They’re going back home, but Robb won’t be there waiting for them. There’s no real rush.

Sansa turns at the top of the stairs and holds out her hand, wearily commanding her brother to hurry up. He complies, hopping up one stair at a time like an inexpert frog, and Cat slides her sunglasses on top of her head, pushing her shoulder length hair back, as she enters the cool beige interior of the plane.

Arya is already in a seat with her headphones on, staring down into her lap and furiously working her thumbs over her battered phone, texting someone--she’s a teenager now, but she doesn’t spend hours attached to a phone, the way Sansa did, so Cat can’t imagine who it is she’s talking with. The music is loud enough that Cat can almost make out the angry words. She read an article about an increase in hearing damage among young people from these omnipresent headphones. Arya would be as pleased about wearing a hearing aid as she would be about being forced to wear a skirt.

Cat leans down and pulls one headphone away from her youngest daughter’s ear to whisper, “Too loud.”

Arya frowns, a look that matches her too loose pants, concert t-shirt, and unbrushed hair, but she reaches down and fiddles with some piece of electronic gadgetry, a gift from Jon, Cat thinks, and the thud from the headphones lessens. Cat pats her on the shoulder in thanks.

They’re good kids. Sweet kids. All of them.

Jon comes up behind her with Bran in his arms. Without a ramp, he’s without his chair. Bile rises up in her throat, as she sits down, leaving one seat empty between herself and Sansa for Rickon, who has dashed down the aisle to explore the soft leather chairs and glossy finishes of the plane, and watches Jon turn sideways, maneuvering between the seats and speaking to Bran.

“Where’d you wanna sit, buddy?”

Bran points at the seat next to Arya, and Jon mumbles his approval at Bran’s selection. He’s good with Bran. Good with Arya too and he was Robb’s best friend, but Cat can’t help but resent his presence here, despite the help he might give her and his closeness with her children.

He’s not a bad kid either. He’s actually a really good kid and has never given them a moment’s trouble until the discharge, which he couldn’t help. She doesn’t hate him. It would be too exhausting to hate a kid that has done nothing wrong, a kid that for better or worse, she’s had to accept into her family. It’s not his fault. None of it is his fault, anymore than it is her fault that Ned loved Lyanna first and maybe best.

Of course, Cat was married to Ned for over a decade when Lyanna died, which made it ancient history. She hadn’t given a thought to Lyanna, the woman who Ned had been with just months before their whirlwind engagement and marriage in years, when they got the phone call from their lawyer, alerting them that Lyanna had died of breast cancer and named Ned Stark in her will as Jon’s guardian should something happen to her. Luwin told Ned he’d track down a relative of Lyanna’s to take Jon or the state would handle it—he was in the middle of an election year after all and too busy to deal with the unexpected and added hassle—but Ned wouldn’t hear of it.

_If there’s some family, honey, don’t you think he’d be better off with them? Maybe you should let Luwin try._

She was terrified at the thought of being responsible for an unhappy, orphaned twelve year old, who would never accept her as a mother. Afraid of how a troubled child would affect her own children, she kept pointing out all the difficulties, all the other options that might be better for them all, Jon included.

But he wanted Lyanna’s child. It made Cat feel like he still cared about the dead woman, something she hadn’t considered since Robb was born ten months after they were married and she saw how happy their son’s birth made him. It made her imagine that her first suspicions about Ned’s attentions to her were right all along, when he ignored her concerns about taking in the boy and refused to discuss them.

She met Ned in the midst of the fallout from a messy break up. Lyanna was his childhood sweetheart, the girl he probably would have married, but she’d lied to him in the worst possible of ways. Having been seduced by another man, she’d tried to pass the pregnancy off, told Ned that the baby was his. It would have worked too—Ned being too willing to believe the best about the people he cared about—if she hadn’t eventually confessed everything and run away. So, in those early days, Cat sometimes wondered whether he would have forgiven Lyanna and stayed with her if Lyanna had never left, whether he would take Lyanna back if she turned up again, despite her betrayals. She worried that when he was making love to her, he was thinking of Lyanna, and that he’d only thrown himself into their relationship and asked her to marry him so as to forget the woman he truly loved.

It all came rushing back, when Jon Snow was ushered by a social worker through the doors of their home by with a head of dark curls, sad grey eyes, and a long face, looking enough like Ned that Cat knew it would cause confusion amongst gossips and voters. Ned might love her now, but he hadn’t forgotten Lyanna and wouldn’t deny her request no matter the cost to their family. Jon Snow’s presence in her home meant neither of them would ever be allowed to forget.

 Boarding school ensured that he wasn’t her daily responsibility, college took him away, and then the Army, but here he was, helping grab a comic book for Bran and asking for Rickon to come sit down. Helpful. His presence doesn’t bother her usually. The disagreement was between her and Ned and it’s one she’s laid to rest with time, and she and Jon generally stay out of each other’s way, which seems to suit them both. He is always helpful and unobtrusive, but here he is. Today and of late, it is almost more than she can bear.

She thinks of her baby, her auburn haired boy, dead. He was shot down in a far away country, and she will never hold him in her arms again, never see him marry, never see him grow into the man she knew he was going to be. She’d claw at her face with her short, no nonsense nails until the blood runs in rivulets down her cheeks if it would take some of the pain she fears he felt in his last moments away. But as a mother, there is nothing she can do for her dead boy. There are no more hurts to soothe.

She’d prayed for him to come home. She’d secretly hated the idea of him being over there in harm’s way and prayed every day for him to come home to her. He is home, buried in Michigan soil beside his father’s family. Sometimes prayers are answered.

“Mama?” Sansa says softly, and Cat turns to her daughter, clearing her throat of the lump that has formed there.

“Yes, honey?”

Sansa tucks a strand of hair behind her ear with a sigh, “Do you have another? I think I could use another.”

“The one I gave you will be enough,” Cat says, reaching out to pat her daughter’s hand. “We’ll be in the sky and you’ll be asleep before you know it.”

“I hope so,” Sansa says, letting her head tip back against the seat.

Cat hopes so too. The Xanax have done nothing for her.

The attendant who will be assisting them on this flight comes through the doorway, the wind blowing her blonde hair about her face until she’s fully inside. She moves down the aisle with a small, apologetic smile. Cat’s growing accustomed to this look after seeing it on hundreds of faces, since news of her son’s death came delivered to their door. Some wear it better than others and this woman looks genuine enough.

Cat wonders whether the trim little skirt she wears that doesn’t quite reach her knees is something Robert requires while she’s on the job. She’s attractive enough that she doesn’t doubt he was the one who hired her. She looks like his type, but almost anything with a pair of breasts is Robert’s type. She’d feel sorry for Cersei if she wasn’t so insufferable.

“We’ll be on our way in just a moment. If everyone will put on their seatbelts?”

“That means you, little one,” Cat says, turning to look over her shoulder at Rickon, who has ignored Jon’s attempts to lure him to his seat. “Come sit by Mama.”

He begins his hopping back down the aisle, setting off the lights on his sneakers with each thump, and the woman looks a little uncomfortable, her face twitching into a fake smile, as she tips back, trying not to get her feet trod on. He makes it by without incident and the attendant sighs, her face settling back into practiced calm.

“Once we’re in the air, I can get you all something to drink. Maybe a little snack?” the woman offers, her hands skimming over the soft leather headrests.

“Candy?” Rickon asks loudly, as he crawls over her lap to get to his own seat. “Chocolate candy?” he asks, as he bounces up and down, his blue eyes wide with the excitement of flying.

Candy will only keep him awake and Cat hopes that more than just Sansa will be able to sleep on this flight. Rickon has been up since four this morning. With the threat of a sugar high looming, Cat discreetly shakes her head at the attendant.

“Maybe some milk?” the woman offers cheerily instead.

Rickon ignores her offer, since it holds no appeal, and twists to look out the window, his fingers gripping the edge to peer at the figures who move on the tarmac. It’s just enough of a pause in his frenetic activity for Cat to snap the two metal halves of his seatbelt together.

“Now, don’t touch that, please,” she instructs, bending down to kiss his messy curls.

He has a habit of popping out of his seat in the car, and she doesn’t have the energy to play that game today. He’s already kicking his legs, but the seats are widely placed—no seatbacks for him to kick. Yet another blessing of private travel.

“Well, you think about what you might want. I’ll be in the back,” the woman says, with a limp-wristed wave. “Suzie, if you need me.”

She says her thanks, grateful that some things come automatically, because she’s still Ned’s wife and as such needs to set an example: rudeness to well meaning strangers is unacceptable.

Cat covers Rickon’s kicking legs with one hand. “Do you want the iPad?” He nods his head vigorously, smiling like a wolf that shows all its teeth. “Then stay still for Mama,” she says, as she leans down for her purse under her seat and blindly grabs for the iPad.

It’s used for games to keep Rickon occupied more than anything else. It can be a fulltime job keeping Rickon busy and out of trouble, and she’s thought more than once while they were in Michigan that maybe it was a mistake not to take their Norwegian au pair, Osha, along with them. She’s from the countryside and would have enjoyed a break from the noise and hurry of the city, and it would have lessened the amount of time Cat needed to devote to Rickon and Bran, but that would have also meant more time left to her thoughts.

I need all the distraction I can get, because how does anyone survive the death of their child? How does someone keep on going after that?

Which is why it is strangely disappointing when they’re in the air and she looks over to see the iPad sliding out of Rickon’s lap and his mouth slack with sleep. She grabs it to keep it from falling and tucks it back into her purse. He was the only thing she had to distract her on this flight. Arya’s head is bobbing along to the music Cat can no longer hear over the roar of the engines and Bran’s head is buried in a comic—he’s obsessed with super heroes, Spiderman and Superman are his favorites, as he’ll be happy to discuss with anyone. She looks to Sansa, but she’s a mirror of her little brother with her head at an awkward angle and her mouth hanging open. The only difference is the knit of Sansa’s brows, as if she’s asleep but still weighed down by anxiety.

Her pretty daughter would probably shake herself awake if she knew how she looked. Sansa is the only one of her children who is obsessed with appearances and the modeling hasn’t helped with that, but as generous and compassionate as she is, Cat has no doubt the more superficial aspects of her character will fade with maturity. She has no worries there.

“Is she okay?” Jon asks, disturbing Cat’s silent reverie. She looks up at him, brows raised in question. “Sansa, is she all right?” he asks again.

“I gave her a Xanax so she could sleep. She’s been having trouble sleeping.” He stares back at her, his eyes as sunken and sullen as her daughter’s, but it’s not the norm for Sansa. It’s not so unfamiliar a look to see on Jon’s face. “She’s a strong girl; she’ll be all right eventually.”

She’s more worried about Arya. Cat hasn’t managed to coax much out of Arya about the death of her brother, but she is obviously very, very angry. It might be useful to get them all a therapist.

“She stayed in her room almost the whole time. Skipped a lot of meals,” Jon says, running his hand through his hair.

Maybe he mentions it, because he did the same thing upon returning from Afghanistan, because she’s never known him to take an interest in Sansa before. They’re the only two children who never developed a real relationship, which probably had something to do with the fact that his appearance in their life coincided with the birth of a new sister that Sansa wasn’t entirely thrilled about, since it meant she was no longer the baby. And what would a twelve year old boy want to do with seven year old girl?

She’s prevented from having to say anything else when the attendant moves forward and leans down to whisper, “Anything I can get you, ma’am?”

It wouldn’t be appropriate to drink. She has to try to keep her head about her. “A ginger ale, please.”

The woman, Suzie, moves on, bending down to solicit orders from Jon, Bran, and Arya, who slides her headphones back just long enough to ask for a Coke.

Cat sits, staring out the window, until her drink is brought to her and then she sips it slowly, trying to make an event of this drink, focusing on the bubbles and the cool of the ice, instead of the hysteria she feels building inside of her, as lack of action leaves her with nothing but her own dark thoughts.

She’d never loved anything so much as her boy. They put him in her arms and her world was changed forever. But he died without anyone to hold him. She didn’t even get to kiss him one last time. Not enough left of him to kiss his handsome cheek. God knows what they’d buried.

She’s only made aware of the hot tears streaming down her face, when she hears Jon’s voice.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry about Robb,” he fumbles with nothing in his lap, unable to meet her eye.

Here he is.

She can feel her heart race, her vision blur, her hands begin to shake.

Here he is.

Jon Snow will get married to some nice girl, who will be charmed by his handsome face and dutiful demeanor. Advance in a career that will make everyone proud, working hard and rarely complaining. Have babies. Grow old to see his grandbabies. He’ll do anything and everything he wants. The world is before him.

And her baby is dead.

It hurts so, so much, and all she wants is for it to stop hurting.

She looks up at him, her glass gripped tight, the ice jumping with the trembling of her hand, and the words flow out like poison.

“It should have been you.  Robb should have been the one to come home.”

He looks up and fixes her with his haunted stare. She prepares herself for a verbal assault, but it never comes.

“I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sansa's up next. I can't begin to say how excited I am for a Sansa POV.


	6. Sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I’m hiding in plain sight, playing pretend. Red makes it almost impossible to fade into the scenery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will likely be the last update for a little over a week, as I will be without internet connection on the second stage of my trip. Hopefully I will be able to write though and have something for you all when I get back.

Chapter Five: Sansa

Sansa pushes the food around her plate with her fork, spreading the food, and breaking it into ever smaller pieces before bringing nearly empty forkfuls up to her mouth to mimic the process of eating that she can’t manage at the moment. There’s nothing wrong with the salmon in a dill sauce with fresh summer squash, but she has no appetite lately. She didn’t come down for meals while they were in White Harbor and no one gave her any trouble about it—her grief is no deeper or more important than anyone else’s—but her mother said something about being worried when they got home, so she’s doing her best to look like everything is normal. The effort feels enormous, but it’s the least she can do for her mother, who is shouldering the weight alone with her father in Washington and at least she doesn’t have to fake drinking her water.

The dining room table is quieter than she ever can remember it being and that odd silence doesn’t seem to be helping her nervous stomach. A little noise would drown out her thoughts, but Osha took Bran and Rickon out for burgers—not something her mother would normally allow, particularly when there’s no real occasion for indulgence—Arya sits at the table with her Skullcandy headphones on, listening to loud music and drumming her fingers on the dark wood of the table—neither of which her mother would _ever_ permit—and her father is gone, which leaves her and her mother and Jon sitting in an awkward silence that makes their swallowing and the scraping of knives over bone china sound ridiculously loud.

She’s considering telling Arya off herself just to have someone to argue with, when her sister pulls her headphones back, letting them hang around her neck, and mumbles something about being excused.

Her mother peers over at Arya’s plate and nods. “All right. Clear your plate, please.”

Sansa’s eyes go wide, watching her sister shove back her chair and stomp from the table—combat boots thumping over the oriental carpet—with her shiny black headphones back in place and plate clutched in both hands.

“Really?” she asks, as Arya disappears from the room.

Her mother gives her a defeated smile and Sansa immediately regrets making an issue of Arya’s dismissal from the table.

“Well, I don’t see why not. We’re not all here to begin with and she finished her dinner.”

Her mother says it gently enough, but Sansa feels her cheeks sting with heat at what she knows her mother is hinting at. She chances a glance in Jon’s direction to see if he’s caught on to her mother’s commentary, but he’s focused on his food, his face blank and his stubbled jaw working mechanically.

“Do you want me to make you something else?” her mother offers, lines creasing her forehead, as she frowns at the food spread across Sansa’s plate.

Sansa stares down at it, wishing she could throw her napkin over it and end the discussion. “No, thank you. It’s delicious,” she adds, because maybe it is and maybe it isn’t—she’s not one to judge presently—but it’s polite to say so, when her mother went to the trouble to make it.

Her mother sighs. “Just tell me this isn’t about the modeling.”

Sansa’s modeling has been a point of contention between her and her mother over the years, especially in high school when it required her traveling to Europe. Her mother felt she was too young to leave home. That the pressures of a job and exposure to bad habits could be damaging. Sansa had navigated it well enough. It’s only lately that things started falling apart and her problems have nothing to do with modeling.

“It’s not,” Sansa insists, bringing the water glass to her lips once more.

The modeling is why she feels guilty about eating pizza. Her inability to stomach anything isn’t about counting calories. The fear that hollows out her stomach has been there since she sat before Robb’s casket. He was her older brother. He was supposed to protect her and fly above danger like Bran’s comic book heroes or slay dragons and rescue maidens like the princes in the Disney movies she watched as a child. He wasn’t supposed to die. He was supposed to come home and make Joffrey very, very sorry. His death isn’t just the loss of her brother, but an overturning of her expectations about the world, a realization that not only isn’t life fair, but also that life’s pretty bleak. But she doesn’t feel like she can speak his name out loud without adding to her mother’s sadness. She has to be strong the way Robb would have been.

“My stomach is just upset. I’ll take something.”

Her mother’s eyes darting over her daughter in that appraising way mother’s have. Sansa never pretended to be sick to skip school—she liked seeing her friends too much to want to stay home—but she’d seen Robb get the once over, when he claimed he was running a fever, as if just by a glance their mother could see through his life. Which is why she probably knew Sansa was lying now too.

“And the hair?” her mother adds. The inability to eat might be about her brother’s death, but her hair predates the phone call she received from her father, telling her she better come home. Her dye job is from the previous crisis in her life. She did it in the dean’s guest bath and he looked about as happy with the outcome as her mother does now. “Your agent won’t like it, honey.”

She books jobs being a redhead. It sets her apart. More than half of Manhattan has dark hair. Her mother’s right: her agent won’t like it one bit.

“I didn’t do it for my agent. I dunno,” she says, swirling her fork around on her plate. “Maybe I won’t model anymore.”

“Well, you argued enough to be allowed to do it, but if you’re tired of the modeling, I certainly don’t mind you quitting. You can focus on school.”

School. Sansa’s stomach flips. She still hasn’t mentioned her grades to either of her parents. She failed every class. She hoped maybe she’d passed music theory after years of piano lessons, but she didn’t take the midterm or final exams, so it shouldn’t have surprised her when she logged onto the school’s record page two nights ago and saw a string of interrupted F’s by her name. The notice came the next day—academic probation.

She could call Dean Baelish and he’d probably help her work something out this summer with some of her professors, so she could go back in the fall without any issues, but seeking his help no longer seems like the saving grace it once did. At least, not without a cost of its own.

There’s probably no way out of this, which means eventually she’ll have to say something to her parents. Unfortunately, the thought of disappointing them now is worse than it was two months ago when this all started as a crisis with her boyfriend that the dean insisted he could see her through.  Her only hope it that they’re distracted enough that maybe she can put it off and avoid the ensuing confrontation. August sounds like a long way away.

Her mother stands, gathering up her plate and napkin, and glides around the table to stand over Sansa. She leans down to kiss the crown of Sansa’s head, where her hair no longer looks like a brighter version of her mother’s. “I have a bit of a headache myself if you’ll excuse me,” her mother says, smoothing her hand over the strap of Sansa’s white sundress. “But I’ll see if we have any lemons if you want me to make you some lemon cheesecake. I’ve got the cream cheese.”

Sansa shakes her head. “No, thank you, Mama.”

“Try to eat a little more for me, honey.”

“Yes, Mama.”

And then her mother is gone, leaving Sansa alone with a plate full of cooling food, and because she promised, Sansa dutifully takes one real bite. It tastes like ashes. It takes three swallows of water to choke it down.

She looks over at Jon, who sits cattycorner from her. For some reason, though he’s already finished everything on his plate, he has made no move to get up. Maybe he means to keep her company while she tries to gag down her dinner. Maybe he can tell that after hiding out in her room for days, she’s lonely. He spends almost every day in a dark basement like a hermit, so he’s probably pretty familiar with what it’s like to be alone.

He didn’t used to be so solitary. Even when he came to live with them and he looked so sad, he was always with Robb.

They have next to nothing in common, but maybe they could be lonely together. They’re both missing Robb after all—that’s _something_ in common.

She bounces her leg under the table, where he can’t see her nervous, unbecoming movement, trying to think of something to say to him.

She’s going out tonight with her college roommate Margaery and Margaery’s older brother, Loras. They’ve had plans for a couple of days, but she didn’t mention it to her mother and has no plans to, because Sansa knows she won’t like it. Except, given how permissive and distracted her mother’s been these past couple of days, maybe she could be totally upfront about it and still get away with it.

She thinks for a moment about asking him to join them. Jon is usually the last person on her mind and they don’t go out together: he’s just old enough that until recently it would have been super weird for them to hang out. But it might be fun.

Only, Margaery and Loras are so chatty and loud—so overwhelming—that she’s not sure Jon would feel totally comfortable with them. What would he wear? He’s almost as bad as Arya, except for where her pants are too baggy, his are too tight. She wrinkles her nose at the thought of Jon dressed in a t-shirt, jeans, and his Converse sneakers at the Red Keep, the most highly hyped new club. He probably doesn’t know how to talk to girls either. It’s a good thing he’s good looking, because he’s kind of hopeless otherwise. Some girl is going to have to do all the work to land him.

“I’m going out tonight,” she tries.

He’s perfectly capable of asking if he can join her, so she’ll leave it in his court. If he asks to tag along and then he ends up having a terrible time, she won’t have to feel as if she dragged him out and made him miserable hanging out with her friends in a noisy club.

He puts his fork down and pushes his plate away like you shouldn’t really do. It’s just a casual statement, but the gesture and the way he sits there make it look like he’s working through something monumental.

“Where?”

“Red Keep. Loras can get me in.”

She’s underage, but that shouldn’t matter: she’s got a great sparkly silver dress that shows a mile of leg and to die for heels laid out across her bed ready to go. That’s been more than enough in the past. Just in case though, Margaery swears Loras knows somebody who knows somebody. And of course, someone might just recognize her—brown hair or no, it’s hard to escape being a Stark—and let her in because of who she is.

“Loras?” he asks, his dark brows drawing together.

“He’s my roommate, Margaery’s brother? He’s your age.”

That doesn’t seem to make him any happier. His brows grow even more menacing, surprisingly outdoing his previous frown, but he says nothing as he crosses his arms over his chest. It’s like he’s imitating Robb—protective older brother—and it should annoy her, because he’s not her brother and he can’t replace Robb if that’s his intention, but it’s kind of nice to have someone worried about her. She’d thank him if that didn’t seem like a weird thing to do.

“Why’d you do it?” he asks, his grey eyes fixing on hers. When she doesn’t immediately answer, he lifts his chin in her direction, “Your hair. You said you didn’t do it for your agent.”

“Oh. Because I wanted to be someone else.”

Perhaps his concern softened up her exterior, which she’s been trying to harden after feeling like it’s absorbed several blows in the past few months, but she’s immediately embarrassed to have admitted why she dyed her hair box brown. ‘I wanted something new’ would have an easy enough, believable enough answer. But it had to be—I’m hiding in plain sight, playing pretend. Red makes it almost impossible to fade into the scenery.

She slips out of her chair without pushing it back and begins quickly arranging her silverware on the plate, but in her rush to flee her mortification and Jon’s steady gaze, she drops her ivory napkin to floor. She fumbles to reach for it and deposits it back on her plate, but her cheeks are already pink with barely concealed embarrassment.

“Sansa,” he calls out to her, right before she’s made her escape to the landing to carry her plate down the back stairs to the kitchen.

She stops and turns with a bright, fake smile, hoping he doesn’t have anything else to say about her hair. “Mmhmm?”

“Take it easy tonight. I understand the temptation, but don’t go crazy.”

Just like Robb. Just like something he might say.

She shrugs one shoulder, whipping her hair to the side. “I’ll be fine.”

…

“I’ll be fine,” she assures Loras, who grabs her elbow to steady her as she emerges inelegantly out of the cab onto the sidewalk and teeters on her heels.

At least she doesn’t think anyone already standing in line outside the black door of the Red Keep got a peek at her pink Hanky Panky undies.

The pre-partying in Loras’ apartment was probably not the best idea on an empty stomach, but with every funny story he regaled her and Margaery with and each fruity cocktail he mixed for her, she felt the littlest bit better and the littlest bit more special. Or at least a little bit more numb.

She flushes, blushing brightly when he doesn’t let go of her arm as they walk towards the entrance to the club. When she became friends with Margaery at college, it didn’t take long to notice the pictures of her roommate’s gorgeous older brother on Facebook. She cyber stalked him a little bit, seeing what music he liked, what kind of girls he was friends with, daydreaming about what it would be like if she dated—maybe _married!_ —her best friend’s brother. They’d all be close and Margaery would be the perfect aunt to her pretty babies and they’d have houses in the Hamptons next to each other. It was all hopelessly immature, and by the time she actually met him, she could barely form a sentence around him she was so nervous, which wasn’t her hoped for first impression.

It got better. Having a serious boyfriend to fixate on helped initially, and Loras is friendly and flirtatious, which makes him easy to talk to. She’s grown up enough that she managed not to act like a dork in his chic apartment, which is nice enough that she’s not sure how a twenty-five year old manages to afford it. She thought about teasing him about whether he has a sugar momma setting him up, but thought better of it even three drinks in—it’s rude to talk about money. Her mother taught her better than that.

No, he doesn’t let go, just like he didn’t dive into his phone, when Margaery was furiously texting somebody in the cab with a pleased little smile on her face, but kept up a light conversation with her, complimenting her opinions and taste on half a dozen topics. In fact, he doesn’t just hold her arm; he slips his hand into the small of her back, when they stand before the bouncer, so maybe her childish daydreams aren’t _entirely_ out of the question.

The thing about her daydreaming lately is that it seems to be always interrupted by something awful to remind her that life is no fairytale. A slap to the face over dinner at her favorite restaurant, an unwanted sexual overture from someone she trusted, and a phone call bearing news of her brother’s death have been enough to cure her of believing her dreams might come true. This daydream is no different, because as Loras speaks to the bouncer, the huge man with bulky muscles in a white t-shirt glares down at her, making her want to shrink behind Loras until the great big hulking man can’t see her anymore. His face is burned, making the skin on one side of his face smooth and red, but it’s the way he looks at her that’s unsettling.

The man pulls back the door, his body still half blocking it, so Loras has to slide by with Margaery shimmying in behind him, her gold little mini dress wiggling with the sway of her hips. They don’t look back to see if she trails behind. That’s the thing about Margaery and her brother, they’re so exuberant, so set on pursuing their pleasure that she sometimes feels a little lost in their company. Normally it wouldn’t bother her, but lately Sansa hasn’t felt safe, and she hurries to follow them, not wanting to be left alone outside the club.

“Careful, little bird,” the bouncer says with a smile made crooked by his burn, holding out his arm, blocking her from going through, although she doesn’t read his intention to stop her before she’s already stepped forward, which brings her chest into direct crashing contact with his thick forearm.

He grins down at her upon impact and is rude enough that he doesn’t pull back.  She takes a stumbling step back and crosses her arms over herself, as if she’s cold, to put an end to the unwanted contact. Still, this close, she can smell the alcohol on him. Not an odd thing at a club, except he’s supposed to be a bouncer, not a patron.

“I’m with them,” she says, sounding probably just like a bird with her nervous twittering, giving credence to the ridiculous description.

She stands on her toes, trying to see if Loras or Margaery has noticed that she was left behind, but just like that they’ve disappeared into the crowd of pretty faces. She huffs, determined not to turn around and run back to the curb so as to hail a cab in panicked defeat.

She forces herself to smile and meet his face, so as not to appear impolite. “Please let me through.”

“Since you asked so nicely,” he chuckles. He lowers his arm, but as she scrapes by, slipping through the open door, he bends low enough to murmur, “Maybe I’ll come in for a song or two with you, little bird.”

Sansa hopes not.

But all is forgotten as the crowd of the club closes in around her and the music throbs in her chest and the lights make her blink. It’s hot and dark and over the top in its sleek perfection. It’s just what she imagined glamorous clubs would be like before she was old enough to set foot inside of one. Surely she can forget herself here.

Four months ago Sansa would have been worried about her mother waking up to find that her underage daughter had sneaked out. She’d have been terrified of disappointing her. But she’s been trying out a new persona to match her new hair and being someone else has sounded like a better and better idea, since her tragedies became exponentially worse. Her new self isn’t going to worry about her mother. Her new self is going to have another cocktail and dance and talk to guys and not care.

She’ll go back to being brave and strong tomorrow. Tonight she will be wild.

She’s squeezing through gaps in the crowd, trying to approach the bar, when she catches sight of Loras. He’s so handsome he’s hard to miss even in the little darkened vestibule he’s leaning in, his crisp white button down catching the glow of the club lights, but if she thought she might monopolize his time tonight, it looks as if she’s off to a bad start: he’s talking to someone already. But it’s a guy, so surely Loras won’t want to stand around talking for too long. Sansa tilts her head and squints, trying to see who it might be that has his attention, but before she can get a better view, Margaery is at her side, pushing a light pink drink dressed with a curl of candied lemon into her hand.

“What is it?” Sansa asks as loud as she can, attempting to be heard over the music, as she lifts the pretty cocktail up to the pulsing light.

She hears Margery’s answer—“Who cares!”—but she mouths the words with such eager exaggeration that Sansa can’t miss it even with the music pounding in her ears.

Who cares, indeed. Sansa lifts it to her lips and sips. It’s sweet. Sweet enough that she could drink three. She might, because she’s going to be careless tonight.

Margaery clinks glasses with her, sloshing a bit of hers over the rim, and grins wickedly before swallowing.

“Everyone’s here,” Margaery shouts, tilting forward towards Sansa.

Sansa shakes her head in bemusement. How did Margaery manage to figure out everyone was here and get a drink in the thirty seconds she was waiting outside trapped by the horrible bouncer? She must be incredibly speedy or whoever it was she was texting with told her everyone was here.

But the more important question is just who is _everyone_? So she asks.

Margaery’s hand closes on her bare shoulder and Sansa ducks her head closer. Wouldn’t do to have anyone hear them screaming their gossip over the bass.

“Joffrey’s dad.”

Jaime Lannister? Well, that’s kind of a letdown.

She’s known Jaime Lannister since she was a little girl. In all those years, he never paid her any attention, even when she was Joffrey’s girlfriend, and even if he is handsome, he’s old. Too old to be always hanging around clubs and hitting on women, both of which he does based on what she reads on the gossip sites.

Anyway, Loras being here with them is much better than any Lannister. If Loras actually _was_ with them, but his head is bent in towards the dark haired man, still in wrapped conversation.

“And who is Loras talking to?” she asks, looking off over the crowded dance floor of writing bodies in the opposite direction of Margaery’s brother, trying in vain to seem uninterested despite her pointed question.

“Oh,” Margaery shrugs. “Just Renly. He’s one of the club’s backers. I told you we’d have no problems getting in.” Margaery swivels on the balls of her feet, looking about distractedly. “That’s nothing. You didn’t let me finish telling you who’s here: we’re here with _Dany Targaryen_. She’s so beautiful. God, I hate her,” she laughs.

As if on cue, a diminutive platinum blonde moves by dressed in a frothy little white dress that barely covers the essentials. Sansa only knows Dany from gala events and red carpets that she’s attended with her parents. She’s certainly never had the nerve to go up to the older girl, because Dany might as well be the queen of the city’s social scene and Margaery’s right—her being here means everyone is here. They’re not the only ones to feel that way: the crowd parts for her as if _she_ owns the place, not Renly whoever it is that Loras is stuck talking to.

Sansa blinks, looking quickly over her shoulder in Loras’s direction though it means taking her eyes off of Dany for a second, because she’s struck by a horrible thought.

Surely not Renly Baratheon. He’s old too. Worse, he's Robert's brother.

She twists back quick enough, but the crowd has closed up behind Dany, and lured by a general contempt for inactivity and the relentless beat, Margaery motions Sansa towards the dance floor.

Sansa hesitates.

Jaime Lannister and Renly Baratheon. There could be more of them, lurking like roaches. It’s like all the Lannisters and Baratheons are coming out of the woodwork tonight and that’s not at all what Sansa wants. Even the thrill of being in the same club as social media darling Dany doesn’t quell the sick feeling that wells up inside of her. Her stomach churns and she presses her lips together hard enough that she knows she might be spoiling her lipstick. Better that than lose the contents of her stomach—all pink, sweet liquid—all over her heels.

Before she loses sight of Margaery again, she hurries after her, begging her pardon as she pushes past people, trying to shake off the haunted feeling that makes her hands tremble and her drink jump in her hands.

I’ll dance and I’ll forget.

Margaery loves life and it’s easy for Sansa to be her new carefree self with her. When they’ve wiggled their way towards the middle of the floor, where the lights flash down upon them, Margaery wraps an arm around Sansa’s middle, making her dance along with her, bumping hips. They’re only half way through the unfamiliar song that is most definitely not top forty, when someone slides a warm, dry hand up her arm, drawing her attention away from her roommate. She looks up and is relieved not to see the bouncer after his little threat. That would be the expected outcome based on how her life seems to be going lately.

The guy wordlessly asking her to dance is decidedly less outwardly threatening. He’s older, but not by too much—he looks about like he’s Loras’ age. He smiles back at her with impossibly white teeth and he’s dressed well and she wants to say yes, but he’s a complete stranger to her.

Sansa’s never danced with a random guy at a club. Other, braver girls might do that, but not her. She always had a boyfriend and Joffrey didn’t find the things she liked—like dancing and throwing your head back to sing along with the words, however silly they were—to be amusing. Joffrey liked contact sports, which meant she had to like them too. She sat through a lot of games and pretended to be interested to keep him happy. Even her best efforts proved not to be enough, however.

As it turns out, she doesn’t really want to be that stupid girl anymore; maybe her new self will be the kind of girl who dances with cute guys when they ask, so she nods yes. Margaery makes an encouraging face and grabs Sansa’s already empty martini glass from her, disappearing into the waves of bodies that begin to bob along to “Get Lucky.” Sansa smiles to herself, as the guy eases her back into his chest, presses his hands into her hips, and murmurs his name against her neck. She misses it, but it doesn’t matter: she’ll dance with him, but he’s not going to get lucky.

She loses herself in one dance and then another, letting her eyes slip closed and her body sway, carried along on a wave of music and the feel of warm, insistent hands on her body. She can feel the alcohol in her limbs, making her slow and slightly off balance, but he holds her up, the crowd surrounding her keeps her upright, and the music keeps her on her feet.

“Sansa Stark.”

Her name cuts through the painless oblivion like a knife, shouted with exposed venom.

Her eyes fly open, although she doesn’t need to see to know who it is. Joffrey stands no more than a foot away, one arm slung around Margaery’s waist, his lip curled in disgust.

“You are such a damn slut.”

Margaery says something, pouting as she turns into him, one hand splayed over his pink button down, but it’s not meant for Sansa’s ears and she misses it.

“Your brother died what…like a week ago?” he says with a nasty laugh.

Sansa looks over her shoulder, realizing that the guy she was dancing with has abandoned her, leaving her to this scene that seems to be helplessly unraveling around her, despite her wish to move her feet and flee the dance floor.

“This is why I dumped you.”

“I thought it was because I talked too much.” That’s what he said after he hit her straight across the mouth, hard enough that her lip bled and tears sprung to her eyes that she had to choke back so no one in the restaurant would see, as he paid the check and hauled her outside.

“Bitch,” he bites back, lunging forward.

She tries to jump back, but she trips over her own feet and he grabs her arm as she rocks on her heels. They both nearly go over from the force of her momentum, because she’s as tall as he is in her heels—he always hated that. The crowd moves, rippling away from them, responding to the commotion, and creating a circle of intrigue, in which all three of them are pulling on each other—Sansa to escape, Joffrey to hold her fast, and Margaery to pull him away.

“Let go,” Sansa demands, not caring if his releasing her should send her straight down onto the sticky dance floor. “Let me go,” she screams, when his fingers dig into her arm and his face turns scarlet.

He’s angry. She’s made him angry and she knows how he can get. He’s yelling ugly words at her, calling her filthy names, spit flying from his mouth, and she claws at his hand, trying to free herself, so she can run to the bathroom and lock herself in a stall until someone thinks to save her from this monster of an ex-boyfriend.

The crowd splits, a tall, blond head pushing through. For a moment Sansa thinks it might be Loras or Jon or even the frightening bouncer outside, but the coloring is all wrong: the man who comes to interrupt the disturbance they’re causing is Joffrey’s father. Margaery was right: Jaime Lannister is here. _Everyone_ is here. He puts his hand on his son’s shoulder. It’s as she suspected: the minute Joffrey lets her go, she begins to topple over, but Joffrey’s father is quick to react and catches her, seizing her hand and tugging her upright.

“There you go. Are you all right, sweetheart?”

It might be the longest string of sentences he’s ever said to her, and she can’t manage anything but a nod in answer, while she clutches at her throat and tries to catch her breath, which comes in great heaving pants.

“This isn’t the sort of thing I imagine you want to be in the papers tomorrow, is it?” he asks of his son. Joffrey brushes himself off, as if he’s been soiled by the tussle, saying nothing and refusing to look up from the floor, where his eyes are trained. He’s not contrite—Sansa doesn't think he’s capable of contrition—but he doesn’t look happy to have his father catch him acting like this either. “Not very gallant,” he adds, pressing his index finger into Joffrey’s chest.

They’re very similar in appearance, identical in coloring, but looking at them here together, Sansa thinks for the first time that they’re not as alike as she always thought. Jaime is taller, broader, more like the knights in fairytales.

She turns, hand extended in case she loses her balance again, intending on disappearing during this little paternal lecture, but she doesn’t get far with the crowd refusing to budge. No one seems to want to give way, but they all seem happy to stare at her.

It’s her name again, coming from behind her, but this time it is Jaime who calls after her, his voice deeper than his son’s, more resonant. “Where are you going?”

She doesn’t know until she says it. “Home.”

“Sounds like a good idea. How’d you get here, sweetheart?”

He looks vaguely concerned with none of the teasing arrogance that usually shapes his mouth into that lazy smile. It’s only the lack that makes her answer, “A cab.”

“My car’s outside. It’ll be more private.”

“Oh, no,” she quickly says with a wave of her hand. “I wouldn’t want to trouble you.” There’s no way she’s ever getting into another Lannister’s car alone again. “I can catch another cab.”

“I wouldn’t want to trouble me either, but I’ll trouble my driver,” he insists, as his arm comes around her shoulder and he begins to push aside the crowd with more success than she managed. “I’m going to get you home. It’s the least I can do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some new folks on the scene. Here are my fancastings for the [Baratheons](http://justadram.tumblr.com/post/50666160738/a-city-of-fortune-and-failure-fancast-for-the), [Targaryens, and Tyrells](http://justadram.tumblr.com/post/49538182781/a-city-of-fortune-and-failure-fancast-for-the). I’ve also posted some images of the Stark’s Upper East Side [townhouse](http://justadram.tumblr.com/post/52333653782/in-the-upcoming-acofaf-chapter-the-opening-scene). There will be more in the future.
> 
> Those of you awaiting a Dany chapter, she is up next! (She'll have a tumblr too.)


	7. Dany

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Dany babbled about social justice, Jorah Mormont had little to share in return but a fair dose of pessimism and a propensity to peer down her dress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter that launched a 48 chapter fic after a few eager Dany/Jorah fans suggested what was a drabble should be a long fic. For that reason, some of this might be familiar to those who are more widely read in my fic. I've had to change it more than a little though, since Jorah is not a POV character. *sob* Just rest assured he's not having knightly thoughts.
> 
> And thanks to mrstater for her Dany/Jorah expertise in a quick beta for this chapter!

Chapter Six: Dany

It’s been a long night of dancing on too high heels and strong drinks and laughter, when Dany exits the club and tips her head back with her eyes closed to the night sky, drinking in the cool, late spring air, refreshingly brisk after the heat of the Red Keep. It’s been the kind of night that leaves her feeling young and powerful and capable of conquering anything. Like she can change the world.

She’s spent much of the latter half of the evening trying to impress upon Jorah Mormont just how grand her plans are for saving every hungry child, orphaned refugee, and victim of the sex slave trade. She has a tendency to do that—get intense about the things she’s passionate about—and it turns a lot of people off. It makes her brother roll his eyes. Jorah at the very least didn’t roll his eyes or excuse himself and conveniently disappear.

It was an unexpected place to run into him. He’s middle aged and not a part of the social set that frequents clubs and parties. She quite nearly said as much when she left the bathroom—before her group of hangers on managed to finish reapplying their lipstick—and quite literally bumped into him in the dark hallway lit only by black, recessed sconces that gave off a hazy glow that left her light eyes squinting.

 _What are_ you _doing here?_

He didn’t really have a response for that and maybe the question itself was a touch rude—rudeness she blamed on too many martinis and a light dinner of salad with braised peaches or just a slight tendency to insensitivity born of not being called on her occasional lapses in graciousness. The rudeness must not have escaped him, because he addressed her, his shoulders’ squaring up, as _Miss Targaryen_ , a title she waved off impatiently with her hand before latching onto his arm and pulling him towards the crowded bar to make amends.

What counted for amends started off with asking how he was and quickly inquiring after her uncle before derailing into a lecture on the evils of bottled water, while biting blue cheese stuffed olives off drink skewers—and wearing Jimmy Choos, he had the nerve to point out, as if one could not care enough to save the world while wearing designer clothing. In fact, while she babbled about social justice, he had little to share in return but a fair dose of pessimism and a propensity to peer down her dress, but she didn’t let either development dampen her enthusiasm.

Tonight anything felt possible. Even forgetting Drogo.

Jorah Mormont isn’t exactly the type to help a girl forget. He’s got to be more than ten years her senior and balding and not entirely polished, but he’s more than a head taller than her and he looks like he might sport some muscles underneath his shirt and jacket, based on the broadness of his chest. he’s not particularly handsome, but he looks fit and strong. Besides, his honest appraisal of her schemes to conquer all evil in the world has its own kind of amusing charm, when so many people dance around her, almost worshipful in their enthusiasm to agree with her every word and shower her with praise, while still gazing over her shoulder, always ready to latch onto the next new thing, the next more important person to enter the room and their life.

Such as tonight, when all of the attention in the club swung from her to some squabble on the dance floor that was only solved by what looked like Jaime Lannister’s timely intervention, swooping in like Prince Charming come to defend some innocent faced girl. She sometimes wondered about him. He was handsome, gracious, and smooth, but she also wasn’t aware that anyone she knew had ever slept with him.

Jorah should be something less of a mystery. He is not famous for his tact based on what she knows of him. Dany has met him several times at various galas hosted by her uncle’s firm, Barristan & Rakharo, where he’s been employed for years. Outside of formal affairs, she’s seen him in the hallways, when she makes her way to the offices to receive her monthly allowance left to her in trust. She’s heard his voice and her uncle’s raised together, talking heatedly in her uncle’s office. Uncle Barristan seems to have a rather contentious relationship with Mr. Mormont, but he’s still around despite everything, so he must at least be good at his job, protecting assets with pad and pen or keystroke or whatever it is he might do.

Tonight she is the asset he intends on protecting.

“They’re sending a cab around,” he assures her, his hand finding the small of her back, as the backdoor to the club closes behind them.

It’s a little presumptuous, so she looks up sideways at him through her mascara blackened lashes, smirks, and dips just out of his reach with a sway of her hips, stepping further into the freshly hosed alleyway.

Unless she wants to be photographed, she tries to leave a place by choosing the backdoor and not the front. Clubs and restaurants that she frequents know that’s sometimes her preference—crowds and photographers and articles boasting her picture and her name aren’t always unwanted, but sometimes they’re too much. So, she’s learned that cabs draw less attention than limos or sleek black Mercedes with hired drivers. But, when the crowd thinned out this evening and she needed a little help staying up on her nude heels, Jorah said he didn’t like the idea of her taking a cab home by herself, reminding her of the scuffle that had occurred earlier in the evening, as proof of how dangerous the night can be.

_Your uncle would have my head if something happened to you and he found out I could have done something about it._

The notion made her laugh—hard enough that that he blinked his eyes quickly at her. She’s used to taking care of herself. She’s quite good at it. It’s just been her and her brother, Viserys, for as long as she can remember. Despite not having a burly guard to escort her home, she’s made it this far in life, but she accepted nonetheless with a whispered, _What a surprise: chivalry is not dead_ , with the hope that his offer is an honest one.

Sometimes the worst part of the night is when everyone has gone home and it’s just her alone in her house, which suddenly feels impossibly large and hopelessly impersonal. It’s not the solution she wants—she wants Drogo waiting for her, his tanned skin hot under the white, Egyptian cotton sheets—but Jorah’s company in the cab ride will put off that loneliness for just a few minutes more.

When the cab pulls up, he holds her hand as she climbs in. With the sudden change in height from standing to sitting, she feels a bit swoony, the world spins, and she leans heavily into his shoulder as he tugs the car door shut behind himself with a dull thud.

“Your address,” he prompts her, and she mumbles her response, while straightening the gauzy layers of her dress, which has ridden too high in the process of getting into the car.

The cabbie can’t hear her, so Jorah repeats it for her with exaggerated emphasis on her house number.

She’s drunker than she thought, she realizes with a giggle, as the cab driver pulls into traffic, and the whip of the car causes her to grab onto Jorah’s thigh to steady herself. She tilts her head up to smile an apology at him, but he can barely meet her eyes, as he attempts not to look down her dress yet another time, staring into the back of the cab driver’s head with forced intensity.

By the angry set of his mouth, he looks like might regret offering to see her home, so she shifts, trying to right herself, so she might slide further over on the bench seat, giving him his space.

She fails, ending up slipping further into his side, her hand scrambling against the wool of his pant leg.

“Careful there, princess,” he advises, sounding not as gruff as his frown would lead one to expect.

Of course, he’s been drinking too. She’s not the only one who is impaired in this cab with Pakistani music blaring from the front seat.

She looks up at him, her hand lingering, and in the flashing red, green, and bright white lights, the wrinkles around his eyes fade, leaving his skin smooth if weather darkened. He doesn’t seem like someone that earned those lines from a great deal of smiling. Dany wonders for a moment what his story is. What his life outside of working for her uncle is like.

She’s led a vagabond life and is a collector of people’s pasts as much as she is a collector of her own scattered memories of places that never felt like home—even her professionally decorated brownstone resolutely fails to feel like home every time she comes back after a long night. If she’s being honest, she’s not just a collector of their stories: she likes to collect broken people and try to fix them.

She’s not sure that Jorah’s rough manner conceals some soft, gooey, hurting center, but he’s interesting. He’s honest. That’s enough to make her curious.

“What’s a guy like you doing at someplace like the Red Keep?”

“Like what? Divorced or middle aged?”

“I didn’t know you were divorced,” she scoffs. Although that might mean he _is_ a bit broken. “I meant the club is pretentious.”

“Sometimes a guy just wants a beer.” Dany knows better than to think anyone would go to trouble to get into the Red Keep for a beer, but she lets him continue to speak. “If it’s so pretentious, what were you doing there?”

Dany’s not sure. It had seemed like the thing to do. Viserys assured her it was the thing to do, and although she should know better than to go by his judgment, she often finds herself following his advice on such things as where she should be seen.

“You’re not from New York,” she says, deflecting his question, as she tucks the strands of her platinum bob behind her ear.

“No. I’m from Michigan.”

“I can picture you in Michigan.” In a plaid shirt and boasting a fishing pole or whatever it is people do in Michigan.

He frowns at her. “Have you ever been?”

“No.” But she saw the pictures from Robb Stark’s funeral in the papers. Very scenic. Very wholesome. Lots of trees. Like Central Park but unplanned.

“I’m not from here either. We’re a pair of aliens.”

“Like most of New York.”

I’m from nowhere, she’s tempted to say. But he likely knows her story. Most people in New York do. “You want to know what I think of when I think of home? I picture myself when we lived in Europe with a lemon tree in my backyard. Our house had a red door.” That’s about the whole of what she remembers.

“Then home must be a very long way away.”

It was. But Michigan was pretty far too. Maybe even farther if he’d left half his heart back on the shores of Lake Michigan.

“I like you.”

She bumps his shoulder with hers purposefully this time, and the thin strap on her white dress slips, not really revealing more skin than was already exposed, but definitely drawing the eye more than her uncle would approve of under these circumstances. Her teen years might be well behind her, but a little spark of rebellion makes her imagine what her white haired uncle might say about her choice of an escort. Uncle Barristan is more than a wee bit protective.

“You’re drunk.”

“A little,” she shrugs. “But I _do_ like you.”

He quirks one brow and rubs his chin. “You’re fond of analysts?”

“I suppose I am.” She lifts one leg, bumping the seat in front of her and nearly losing her heel. “Is that what you do?”

He chuckles. “Yes, and what do you do, princess, when you’re not solving the world’s problems?”

That’s a good question. She has her charities. She’s on several boards. But even her charities feel like socializing, when they involve attendance at one banquet or ball or cocktail party in support of one cause or another. Socializing isn’t a job. Or it shouldn’t be. She feels like she started out with a purpose. Started out leaving college with plans to set the world on fire and then somewhere along the way she got lost.

For the past couple of years she’s been standing in place, not accomplishing much of anything besides dating. Rather unsuccessfully of late. There’s no lack of men eager to date Dany Targaryen, but not many winners, despite the sheer numbers. Her name is probably a huge part of the problem.

“If you insist on calling me princess, I’m going to make you one of my court.”

She hates the title. It’s meaningless here in the States. People like her brother, who never ceases to remind everyone that the he and his sister are royalty, are desperate climbers, in her opinion. She’s not against titles entirely. There are some she’d like to earn—president has a nice ring. Maybe of some initiative that works internationally to help people. But Princess Dany of some godforsaken country that ceased to exist more than a century ago and wouldn’t care to be ruled by the likes of her irresponsible, hot tempered brother if it did still exist is a title she’d rather be permanently shelved. She hopes her teasing threat is enough to accomplish that with Jorah.

“Is that right?”

“Yes, you’ll be my guard, won’t you?” she asks, squeezing his thigh. “You’ll need a coat of arms for me to hang on my wall. A proper one,” she continues, though she didn’t even pause long enough to let him accept or decline her offer.

“I already have one.”

That’s enough of an unexpected response that she withdraws her hand to cover her mouth. Something like a hiccup or a laugh escapes. “What?” she asks through spread fingers.

“My father ordered one, when I was a boy. It hung above his desk. One of those send away to England for your family’s arms deals. Totally phony, no doubt, but he was proud of the damn thing.”

“The venerable House Mormont?”

“Yes. House Mormont with a bear on it.”

Her escort is a balding bear. Dany bares her teeth, growls, and makes a claw hand before dissolving into giggles that make her head roll forward. As they die off and she pants for breath, she realizes that he’s looking out the window, staring stone faced at the buildings they’re passing by, while they cabbie yells what must be an expletive in his native tongue at another cab, who’s blocking the intersection.

He acted like it was nothing, but maybe she’s pricked his pride by teasing him about his family. Viserys can be touchy about their status as wandering royalty; Jorah Mormont might be equally defensive about his lineage, however dubious he might present it to be.

“Don’t be cross,” she murmurs, as she pats his shirtfront. Muscled like she thought. She feels her cheeks flush at the realization. Not as big as Drogo perhaps, but big enough. It’s been a few months of cycling through meaningless dates, meaningless kisses, meaningless flings, trying to find someone that will fill that gaping hole Drogo left behind. “I’m just drunk, but I’m interested, really. Did it have a house motto?”

“I don’t know. Probably.”

“Ours is _fire and blood_ ,” she says, making her fingers shimmer before their faces in the imitation of flames. “Friendly, right?”

“The idea wasn’t to be nice.”

“No, I’m sure it wasn’t, but yours is nice. I like bears.”

She likes the cute kind in the zoo. She had a calendar once with baby animals and the black bear cub was one of her favorites. Admittedly, she wouldn’t want to meet one alone in the woods, but there’s little chance of that.

“You must not have much experience with bears,” he says flatly.

“Not much, but a bear is just the sort of guard I could use.”

He clears his throat, turning back to her until his gaze fixes on her hand pressed against his chest. He captures her hand in his, trapping it there.

“What is it you need guarding from?”

 As she leans into his side, she can feel the outline of his bicep through his sports coat, pressing into her breast. He must feel it too. His eyes narrow and travel the line of her neck down.

She pulls her lower lip through her teeth, dimpling them as her lips turn up at the corners. But her nerve fails her. She can’t make herself tease him, not when she knows she’s not particularly interested.

She’s looking for an escape, when one presents itself quite handily. “This is mine,” she says, nodding out the window.

The cab slows to a stop and the cab driver taps at the display with his index finger, a wordless demand to be paid.

She pictures herself walking her fingers up his buttons, tugging on his shirtfront, bringing him down to her level until his lips brush against hers, so he knows to come inside, but instead he leans forward, letting loose of her hand as he hands over his credit card.

“I’ve seen you safely home and we part ways.”

He nods towards the building, her building, as he tucks the card back away in his wallet. Her lonely and empty even though it’s fully furnished brownstone. Yes, that’s supposedly home.

She slumps back in the seat, letting her head flop back before gathering herself together and reaching for the door handle.

He doesn’t look away from the cab driver, when he lowers his voice to say to her, “I’ll watch until you’re inside.”

Inside, where she thinks she’ll sit at the slick counter in her kitchen and have a coffee or a cup of tea—it’s the only thing she ever prepares in there despite the restaurant grade range and expensive copper fixtures—before climbing the stairs to her empty king sized bed.

Climbing out of the cab, the cool night air hits the back of her neck, making her skin prickle, and she pauses at the curb, still holding tight to door. Bending down, she tilts her head to see Jorah’s unsmiling face.

“Will I see you again, good sir?”

“I imagine so, _Princess_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You’ve seen him before if you checked out the Baratheon fancasting, but here is [Jorah](http://justadram.tumblr.com/post/50666160738/a-city-of-fortune-and-failure-fancast-for-the). Just like with all the fancastings, if Iain or some other actor is your forever!Jorah, no matter age, hairiness, or accent, go with that. And for our first peek at Dany’s house, go [here](http://justadram.tumblr.com/post/53843929179/youve-seen-a-bit-of-the-starks-townhouse-for). Or you can just follow me. I post random stuff like this with some regularity and teaser fic too.
> 
> Cersei is up next!


	8. Cersei

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime’s not expecting Cersei, but there’s no reason to make an appointment to see the eldest Lannister: he doesn’t do anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story earns its rating yet again this chapter. So, you might not want to read it at work. ;)
> 
> Next up is Ned’s POV and we’ll have cycled through all the POVs for this fic for the first time! I can't believe it. Thank you to everyone who has supported this fic so far by leaving comments, asks on tumblr, kudos, and favs.

Chapter Seven: Cersei

Cersei walks, her stride long and slow, down the hallway from the elevator towards Jaime’s office, her Louboutins clicking against the pale, patterned, hardwood floor. The eyes of people waiting in the low slung grey leather chairs, sitting beside oblong side tables with Blackberries clutched in their hands, their thumbs busily moving, flick to her as she saunters by, as much as the executive assistants’ eyes do, who are accustomed to seeing her here.

No one can help but look. She dresses to draw attention, but even without her tall heels, slim black dress, and heavy, red enamel and gold necklace, everyone knows who she is. That is what she wanted, when she married Jaime. It’s what she wanted when she married Robert too.

She’d rather be known for the right reasons, however, which is why she’s here today to talk Jaime into a little business proposition, so she doesn’t end up being known as the wife of Robert Baratheon, failed business magnate, fallen king of military industry. Because without the power of a successful business behind the name, you’re just stripped bare for all to laugh at, notorious, fodder for tabloids, and that won’t do.

Jaime’s not expecting her, but there’s no reason to make an appointment to see the eldest Lannister: he doesn’t do anything. He’s a playboy with an office, a pilot’s license, and a physical skill set he hasn’t been able to use since his injury. Cersei loves him, loves the time in their lives he reminds her of, when he is inside of her, but he has no ambition to be anything more. The only reason to make an appointment would be that half the time he isn’t in his office, having haired off for a session in the gym, so she is relieved when his executive assistant nods quickly at her and picks up her receiver to announce his ex-wife’s presence.

“You can go right in,” the woman says, although Cersei wouldn’t expect to be kept waiting.

That’s never how their relationship has worked. At least, not since they were teenagers. Once upon a time, when Jaime was a young, talented baseball player with a trust fund to fall back on, Cersei waited on him, but ever since she married Robert Baratheon, Jaime’s been waiting on her. It has to be that way.

“Please, don’t get up,” she says without conviction, when he stares at his flat screen monitor, refusing to acknowledge her until the massive red door of his office has closed behind her.

“What an unexpected surprise,” he finally replies, his delivery just as monotone as hers.

“You’re awfully engrossed in something,” she says, coming around to his right side behind the desk, her heels deadened by the short pile of the geometric patterned carpet.

There’s nothing on the desk, nothing to move, no papers, no files, nothing at all, when she sits down on its edge and scoots back, crossing one leg over the other. She cocks her head to see what it is he’s staring at, but it’s already disappearing. His hand hovers over a mouse, clicking, closing windows on the screen.

“Business.”

“Too busy to speak with me?” she asks with a slow blink of her lashes.

The late morning sun shines through the tall windows of his office—too big for someone who does nothing—lighting up the gold in his hair. With his face in shadow, he looks almost like he did when they were teenagers, just a little broader in the chest, a little sharper about his nose and cheeks. It makes her want to bend down for a soft kiss.

“No,” he says, swiveling in his chair, pushing away from the desk and purposefully bumping the toe of her heel with his black Italian leather dress shoes. “Never too busy for you, and now that you’re here, I meant to speak to you about something as well.” He rubs his chin, pausing before he says, “I thought Joffrey was dating that pretty Stark girl.”

Cersei frowns at the word ‘pretty.’ “Since when did you start noticing the appeal of adolescent schoolgirls?”

He glances down at the floor, working hard to contain his obvious amusement, which only makes Cersei seethe more. “A simple yes or no about the boy would do.”

She grins, the action making her cheeks ache. “He is. Yes.”

His amusement disappears, melting into a cool glare over the length of his nose, broken at the bridge by a line drive. “Well, then someone needs to have a talk with him.”

She raises her brows. “When was the last time you took it into your head to have a talk with your son? Surely you mean _I_ must have a talk with him.”

“Someone should,” he reiterates, his hands knit in his lap, as he turns his chair lazily from left to right.

She moves her legs away, crossing them again with slow deliberation, ending the constant brush of his foot against hers. Speaking through her teeth, she asks, “About?”

“I saw them at the Red Keep and he was screaming at her.”

“It’s loud in clubs.”

“Not that kind of screaming, Cersei.”

“She’s dim witted. He probably has to scream at her to get her to understand. People fight. People scream. It was just bad judgment to do it in public. He’s only twenty-two.”

She knows she's rambling and making excuses, but she'll always make excuses for her firstborn.

“Perhaps she is stupid, but I don’t think that or his age excuses his behavior. He put his hands on her.”

The hairs on the back of her neck stand, as a chill runs up her spine. Screaming is one thing. She suppresses the shudder that threatens to knock her teeth together. If Joff touched her, that’s another thing altogether.

Jaime must be mistaken. Though Joff has grown difficult and is prone to fits of anger, he is Jaime’s son, not Robert’s. Jaime has never raised a hand to her. Never would. Robert on the other hand.

Jaime doesn’t know. He can never know. She has hidden the marks. Kept away when they were fresh and not yet yellowed. Foundation works wonders too. Anything to hide the evidence, because if Jaime knew, she’s afraid of what he might do and how it would affect them all.

“She’s obviously terrified of him,” Jaime continues, his brows drawn angrily down.

Joffrey is Jaime’s son, but he has seen things. He has seen and learned how a man might treat a woman from his stepfather. As much as she loves her son without measure, no, Cersei must admit that it is not impossible that he meant to hurt the girl. Or frighten her at the very least.

She doesn’t particularly like Sansa Stark—she’s flighty and naïve and _pretty_ —but she probably doesn’t deserve whatever it was Jaime witnessed.

Cersei sighs as if she is tired of this line of questioning, though she has to dig her blood red nails into the palm of her hand as she argues, “We don’t know the particulars.”

Jaime mirrors her own aggravated disbelief back at her with one arched brow. “I don’t care what the particulars are. That isn’t how you treat your girlfriend, looking like you might strangle her. She was shaking like a leaf.”

Cersei wants to demand, ‘And did you comfort her?’ but bites back the words, letting them wither on her tongue, while she counts to five. “I don’t know, Jaime, maybe they’re not seeing each other anymore. Maybe she’s a little tramp and they’ve broken up. I didn’t come here to discuss our son’s love life.”

Jaime smirks, his concern for Sansa disappearing quickly at the promise of something better. All it takes is for her to uncross her legs, while she wets her lips, and he’s smirking, shifting in his chair, his hands pulling at his wool dress pants. Men are all selfish beasts at their core.

“What _did_ you come here for?”

“Not that, I’m afraid,” she says, as she rests her hand on the black, tight fabric of her dress, her heavily jeweled fingers sliding down her thigh.

His smile fades as he leans back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest. “Shame. What then?”

She can tell by the tension in his jaw that he is attempting to hide his disappointment. It wouldn’t be the first time she came her for purposes other than business. It is one place they can be sure of being alone without drawing suspicion, as Robert is as unlikely to appear at Lannister Mercantile as Jaime is to have any business associates come to his door.

“Robert needs…I need Lannister Mercantile to back our big new project.”

“A new project?”

She can be vague with Jaime. He won’t care about the specifics, which is exactly the kind of reaction she requires in this tenuous situation. “Some new technology the great minds have been working on. If we don’t have the funding, the government bid will be dead on arrival. It’s on Ned’s desk, but you know how he is.”

Robert believes that the Baratheon proposal being in Ned’s hands is good enough, that his college buddy and fraternity brother will have his back and see to it that Baratheon Industries secures the lucrative government contract they need to prevent themselves from going under, but Cersei knows better. Senator Stark is just honorable enough to be a problem—an unusual virtue to find in politics—should he begin to investigate too closely the technology itself, which at this stage is little more than a pipedream.

Cersei knows that she must see to it that the Baratheon bid is heavily backed by the nearly endless funds of Lannister Mercantile if the U.S. government is going to be willing to take a chance on moving ahead with the new technology, so the taxpayers don’t end up being left further in debt with nothing to show for it. Plenty of politicians are in favor of padding the military budget, in favor of new terrorist killing technology, which will save the boys abroad, but they don’t like to stick their necks out, when it might mean having it chopped off come election time.

Jaime tilts his head. “Is that what all the maneuvering in Michigan was about then?”

“Maneuvering? Hardly. If I’d been maneuvering, your father would already be backing the project. I merely mentioned to your brother that we might work together and both profit from it. All of us. All of your children.”

Even Joff.

“So, you’ve come on business.”

“Yes. Yes, I came on business,” she huffs.

“You’ve got the wrong office then, I’m afraid,” he says pointing over her shoulder towards the hallway with a flick of his wrist. “You want to see Father or Tryion. I can’t help you with that. No head for business.”

He would insist on being impossible, on throwing her own words—the ones she said when she left him—back at him with an infuriating smile, when she needs him to help her, really help her with something that matters.

Tywin and Tyrion would ask too many damn questions. Questions she doesn’t have answers to. Jaime was to be her ace in the hole.

“What _are_ you good for?” she spits.

If she had been born Cersei Lannister, she would have done something spectacular with the gift of that last name. She would have ruled the whole of New York. The entire nation, perhaps. His name and the power that could come with it is wasted on Jaime. Wasted on his miserable little brother as well. They’re all idiots, who have no idea what’s been given to them.

She slips off the desk, ready to leave in a fit of pique, but he’s faster, on his feet as quick as a cat before she can take a step. His body blocks her way, pressing her thighs into the desktop, bending her back as he leans forward, hands flat on either side of her, caging her in. She can smell his aftershave and fights the urge to breathe deeply.

“Let me go right now.” She swats at his bicep with a scowl, but he merely laughs, taunting her with his toothy grin.

“Turn around, honey.”

“What?”

“Turn around,” he repeats lower.

She can tell from his fattening pupils as much as his gravely tone what he has in mind—if she rubbed her hand over the flat front of his crisp, grey pants, it might be even clearer—but she will not give in to him, despite the fact that she’s growing wet at the thought of him fucking her on this desk. The last time he had to cover her mouth to keep his secretary from hearing her screams and she bit him _hard_ , but she needs something different from him this time.

“I said no. Are you deaf?”

“I heard you perfectly. But I’m ignoring you.”

“That much is obvious,” she says, shoving his chest.

He spends too much time in the gym. He’s too damn strong.

“You want to know what I’m good for? I’ll happily show you if you’ve forgotten.”

His green eyes—a shade so close to hers that it is duplicated in each of their children without variation—flash and his mouth twitches. He might be as angry as he is aroused.

 _Good_.

“No you won’t.”

Oh, but he is good for it. She never feels as good as she does when Jaime is buried inside of her. It reminds her of when she was young. Of when they were both young and reckless and there wasn’t an ounce of fat on her body, not one line, not a single stretch mark. It reminds her of how the whole world seemed full of promise, how it seemed like her dreams of being someone were coming true once the Lannister boy wanted nothing more than to fuck her over and over and over again.

“Oh, yes I will. Turn around, Cersei.”

The way he has her pinned to the desk, one firm thigh on either side of her hips, she has no leverage to knee him or she would, for holding her here against her will. She lifts a knee, testing what kind of damage she might still do, but his right arm wraps around her waist, thrusting her tighter against him.

“None of that.” He skims his teeth over her earlobe, the diamond stud catching and tugging at her flesh, and some of the fight goes out of her, as her head lolls to the side, opening up to his attack. “Play nice,” he whispers.

She exhales, her resistance crumbling under the drag of his hot mouth just below her ear. “I swear to God, if you mess up my makeup.”

Her scarlet lips and heavily lined eyes would look clownish smeared across her face.

“Why do you think I want you to turn around?”

To get a choice view of my ass. “So considerate,” she says with a jerk, wrenching from his grasp successfully now that he allows it.

She twists around to face the desk, and her cheeks flush at the pulsing need that makes her act against her original intentions. It seems forever since Michigan. Forever since she felt like more than herself.

Robert barely ever tries with her anymore, but she’s not complaining. His disinterest is a blessing. There are plenty of whores and climbers willing to fill that role, and she is spared. At this point she rarely has to take him in her mouth to end his drunken attempts to fuck her. But the nights when he is home, when his heavy body rattles with snores beside her, seem endless, while she lays awake thinking of Jaime’s tanned hands on her hips, on her breasts, knotting in her hair as she rocks atop him. That was how they conceived Tommen, her youngest, her baby, her beautiful little blond angel.

For once Jaime’s lack of interest in his children serves her well. Any attention Jaime might pay the boy would likely highlight the striking similarities between himself and Tommen. Robert might be blind to it, but others are not. His brother, for one, seems to always stare too long at Tommen. Jaime’s attention, however, as always is firmly focused on her, like she’s the most beautiful, fascinating creature in the world.

His hands push up her skirt, as she bends over the desk, her weight resting on her forearms, working it over her hips, bearing her ass to the windows behind them.

“Hurry up,” she says blowing a strand of hair out of her eyes, when she tosses a look over her shoulder at him.

Goosebumps have broken out over her skin from the overly air conditioned office, but she’s only focused on the cold of the room for a second, when his hand connects with her upper thigh and ass with a sharp smack. It stings hotly, making her grit her teeth and hiss.

If the spank is punishment for her pushiness, she doesn’t intend on letting him think he has taught her a lesson. “And use a condom.”

Even Robert might notice if the wife he never fucked suddenly was pregnant. Jaime never seems to care about such details, so she must.

He slides a hand into his back pocket, pulling out his wallet to fish for a condom kept there for moments such as these. It’s tucked away inside the billfold just for her. Robert might sleep with whatever trash falls in his path, but Jaime belongs to her exclusively.

The silver foil wrapper hits the desk next to her, and she reaches for it, balancing on her elbows as she nips it open with her teeth to the accompaniment of the clink of his belt and rustle of his pants. The sounds alone cause her to push back against him, bumping into his hand as he takes the condom from her and rolls it down over himself.

“I knew you’d sheathe your claws,” he says rubbing his head against her, where she is embarrassingly wet.

“Shut up,” she begins, finishing on a moan that spoils the effect of her wrath as he pushes into her without warning.

Her fingers scramble against the slick surface of the desk, seeking purchase as he thrusts into her again and again, his fingers holding tight to her hips, yanking her back into him with each meeting of his hips and her ass. She turns her head, pressing her cheek into cool of the desk, letting her eyes slip closed. She gives in to the slide of her body, the rub of her breasts in her lacy bra against the unyielding surface beneath her, and the slap of their naked flesh.

It would sound like romantic nonsense if she explained aloud how it is to have Jaime inside of her. Lock and key. Made for each other. Utter nonsense. And yet, it isn’t so much the stuff of tawdry romance novels as it is a certainty that if she had been born as she ought to have been, she would have been Jaime Lannister. Strong and beautiful as they both might be, the world was not hers to have the way it was for him. He let that opportunity slip, settled for something less, said he only wanted her, and still speaks of desert islands like an idiot, when she wants everything. But when he is inside her, she is as close to being him as she can be. It is a taste of the past, of her near perfection, of his.

He fills her, hitting a spot he reaches effortlessly through practice so that now it feels innate. Perfect. Almost perfect.

“Faster, Jaime.” If he would only… “Harder. Oh, God. Jesus.”

He complies, cursing under his breath, low enough that no one could possibly hear. People are just outside of the door, conducting real business, and a certain amount of discretion is necessary, but she has learned how to control herself in these stolen moments, humming her relief as the pleasure coils tighter, drawing her closer to the edge with every snap of his hips.

He murmurs her name, a hot litany of prayers to her mortal flesh laced with profanities that would shock her confessor, given how chastely she portrays herself, when she attends Mass. As she tightens around him, her eyes squeezing shut in anticipation of an orgasm she knows will have her biting her lip to keep from screaming, she adds her own chorus, his name, only Jaime, Jaime, Jaime.

She gasps, choking back a shout, as the world collapses in on this one point of intense pleasure, waves of it breaking over her so hard that she is only dimly aware of Jaime’s body briefly draping over her, his hands skimming the sides of her body, his breath on her neck.

As the world rights itself, she gets her hands under herself, her palms pressed flat, and turns her nose into the desk, taking a deep breath before pushing herself upright. Jaime has already come. Already pulled out of her. Only the sound of his breathing returning to normal implies what they have done. That and a need to run to the ladies to clean up, she thinks, as his hands settle on her to shimmy her skirt down until it is back in place, leaving her unruffled.

It was too brief. Somehow it is always too brief. She never lives long enough in that moment.

“I’ll talk to Tyrion,” he announces with a pat to her ass.

He sounds so impossibly pleased with himself.

She turns, leaning back against the desk to watch as he disposes of the condom in an empty waste basket and tucks himself away, zipping up his pants and running a hand through his hair, once he’s finished.

“Don’t bother,” she says, grabbing the black, narrow tie he’d tossed over his shoulder to fuck her. She drags her hand down to the midpoint and tugs. “I’ll talk to him myself.”

“Ah, I see how it is.”

She came here for his help, but he gave her something else instead.

“Do you?” she says, leaning forward to press a quick kiss to his lips.

She tries to draw back, but he grabs her elbows and kisses her again. Harder, more insistent. Taking what he can. That's all right: she does the same.

When his lips break from hers, she’s ready to tell him, not for the first time in their years together, “I can handle this myself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’d like to follow Dany on tumblr, you’ll find her at [princessofapalacecracked](http://princessofapalacecracked.tumblr.com). I posted an inspiration pic for [Lannister Mercantile](http://justadram.tumblr.com/post/54196820450/the-upcoming-cersei-pov-chapter-in-acofaf-will). Follow me for further inspiration pics and fic teasers.


	9. Ned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ned's duties as the representative of the people of New York have kept him away since his son’s funeral, but as soon as he is able, he finds his way back home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As it turns out, this chapter made a bit of a liar out of me. Someone asked ages ago whether Brandon would be making an appearance in this fic. I said no and that Ned would only have one brother for various reasons. That’s still technically true, but Brandon is briefly mentioned here. It just ended up making emotional sense.
> 
> Also, this chapter earns its adult rating, so it probably shouldn't be read at work.

Chapter Eight: Ned

Ned’s only been home five hours, when he sits down at the desk with a heavy sigh and flips open his laptop, leaning back in his chair as the computer comes to life with a soft hum. Leaning to one side in the plaid covered wingback chair, he pulls out two Blackberries, one for work, one for personal use, from his back pocket. They’re bound to ring during his chat with Jon, because the demands of Washington don’t stop for a trip home. He doesn’t want anything to disturb them, so he turns off both ringers and slides the phones across the wooden surface of the desk until they’re nearly out of reach.

He arrived on the earliest flight from Washington, so he could sit down to breakfast—pancakes made with extra vanilla, bacon that crackled in the pan, grilled grapefruit halves, and freshly squeezed orange juice, because Cat is a firm believer that breakfast is the most important meal of the day—with his family. His duties as the representative of the people of New York have kept him away since his son’s funeral, but as soon as he was able, he found his way back home.

It was clear at breakfast that despite his best efforts maybe he’d waited too long. Only Rickon seemed his usual high spirited self. Perhaps it’s a blessing from God that he’s young enough not to understand fully the loss of his brother. The rest of them understand it keenly enough. Bran was subdued, slowly flipping through the pages of the comic that Cat let him read throughout breakfast. Arya scowled at her food even as she shoveled it into her mouth fast enough that it was a miracle she didn’t choke. For some reason Cat also had nothing to say about Arya’s headphones, which were blaring music loud enough that he could almost make out the lyrics.

None of the youngest three’s behavior would normally pass muster. It wasn’t as if Cat was physically absent. Her charitable engagements for the day didn’t start until after breakfast. She was present. In fact, Cat seemed almost inescapable, hovering over all the children and hardly taking time to sit and eat in her obvious need to fix whatever it was that was going wrong with all of them. Sansa certainly couldn’t escape her mother’s nervous inquiries. Cat asked Sansa more than once whether she wanted an egg white omelet instead of the pancakes that sat untouched on their daughter’s plate. But despite all this hyper focus, it was evident that Cat simply wasn’t herself.

It’s understandable. He remembers how she looked when she first held Robb. How her face lit up when they put the baby in her arms and her auburn hair was plastered to her face and her cheeks stained red from effort. She’d never looked more beautiful to him than the moment she became a mother and made him a father. They’re still here, sitting at the dining room table, eating their meals, going off to work, but they buried their son. Neither of them will probably ever be the same.

The one who is most awkwardly in the middle of this is Jon, brother to Robb in all ways but blood, the soldier who came home broken, but came home, when their eldest was not so lucky. Ned knows what it is like to be the surviving brother in a conflict, the guilt and uncertainty that eats away at you, the constant questioning whether your brother wouldn’t be better suited to take the reins. Wondering whether the wrong one of you has survived can be crippling. Given how troubled Jon seemed before Robb’s death, Ned is worried this new burden is simply too much for the young man.

At breakfast Jon was completely disengaged from everything going on around him—his eyes empty, his face blank, his movements automatic and stiff, as he reached for plates and passed them along silently. The only words he spoke were directed at his siblings, such as an encouragement to Rickon to drink his juice or an offer to give his grapefruit half to Sansa, which happened to be the only thing she finished. There are the periodic episodes, but mostly Jon’s simply been quiet since coming home from the war. Jon was never as outgoing as Robb, but this is different. This goes beyond his usual quiet thoughtfulness. Jon’s old enough that Ned doesn’t know the details of his medical care and feels uncomfortable prying into them. So he can only speculate. It could be medication that keeps Jon in this perpetual state of blankness or it could be that his brother’s death has slowed his recovery process. Either way, he wants Jon to know someone is worried about him and that he hasn’t forgotten he has another son.

They are all attempting to weather this loss without breaking. Ned’s been focusing on work: the people that could benefit from new legislation, eliminating waste, and speaking out for justice. It’s draining, when he’d rather be at home. He wishes he could take the whole family to Michigan, where they could retreat from the public eye and tend their wounds in dignified retirement. But, as long as he’s sworn to serve and he thinks he can do some good to effect chance, that isn’t a choice he can make. Jon understands that. Cat understands that. Hopefully the rest of them do too.

Ned has obligations here as well as in Washington, and he takes his duties as husband and father as seriously as he does his duty to the people. Jon is his particular responsibility. The children have Cat, but Jon has no one but him and it has been that way since the boy was delivered to their doorstep clutching a duffle bag. He may not be a scrawny, sad eyed little boy anymore, reminding Ned for all the world of Lyanna at the same age, but Jon is still his sworn responsibility. Which is why between syrup laden mouthfuls of pancake he asked Jon whether he could spare a few minutes this morning?

Not that he thought the young man would have plans that might keep him away from a talk in Ned’s home office. He could probably request a late evening meeting and find Jon sprawled across his bed in the basement, while half the young people of New York are out somewhere in the city drinking, dancing, laughing, getting themselves into some kind of trouble. Jon doesn’t ever seem to have plans. In fact, it’s Jon’s habit of keeping to his room that worries Ned. When Jon’s closeted away, it’s hard for anyone to tell whether he’s all right or not.

When the knock sounds on the door, Ned calls out to Jon to come in. He shuffles through the door and gestures at the doorknob, a wordless question.

“Go ahead and close it.”

His shoulders are slightly hunched and his hands are stuffed in his jean pockets, as he comes over to the empty seat opposite Ned and slumps into the wooden chair. Wearing something that approximates a weak smile, he rubs at the two day stubble he’s sporting, as his eyes cut to Ned and then back away to some object on the cluttered custom bookcases behind him.

It might be that he thinks he’s in for a lecture. Or a scolding.

When Jon was younger, he was called in here to sit in judgment on the rare occasion that he was involved in some scrape. After a pitifully brief interrogation, Ned typically came to the conclusion that though Jon would rather bear the burden of guilt than implicate his brother, he rarely earned the full share.

The thought of Robb and Jon, young and with so much promise, with their whole lives ahead of them, makes Ned feel bone tired. So much potential. It can’t all be wasted. He has to save the boy who’s left.

“I’m worried about you, son.”

Jon shifts, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m fine.”

Ned nods, though he doubts that’s the truth. Jon’s just trying to be brave—his last name isn’t Stark, but it might as well be. Of course, there’s a good chance that male pride is getting in the way of total honesty too.

“Good. That means you’re getting out more?” Jon obviously doesn’t have an answer for that and stares down at the floor. “I hope you’re at least making it to your counselor for your sessions?”

Confessing his problems to his father might not be Jon’s first choice, but there is someone whose job it is to listen to Jon talk.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. I think that’s for the best.”

Jon probably likes going to his counselor about as much as Ned would if such a treatment was prescribed for him. The thought of stretching out on a sofa and exposing his inner thoughts to anyone but Cat seems unnatural, but then perhaps that isn’t how Jon’s appointments work. Cat has suggested some of the children might need to see a therapist to help deal with their grief. After seeing them at breakfast, he is tempted to agree, and who knows, after he begins the task he’s set for himself this weekend, he might not feel as if it is only the children who are in need of a professional.

“Yeah. It really helps.”

Jon’s Adam’s apple spasms at the conclusion of this flatly delivered assurance.

“They do their best at the VA to help. You have to remember that.” There’s more Ned wants to say, but he doesn’t quite have the words for it. The offer he intends on making Jon will have to speak for itself.

“I’m going to start going through your brother’s room today. I could put it off, but I don’t want it to become a tomb here in the house. Cat will end up being haunted.”

“I can help.”

He says it firmly enough, but Ned can also see how Jon’s whole body has tensed at the idea of packing up Robb’s things. It’s not a task he _wants_ to help with. It is a task he feels compelled to help with.

Jon has always been quick to help. Sad and withdrawn as he was, he threw himself into helping as soon as he arrived in New York, changing Arya’s diapers, setting the table each night for dinner, and picking up after himself without ever being asked. Ned suspects he learned to be helpful as a boy, when he didn’t feel as if he belonged in their family and was looking for ways to earn a place. Ned knows from having been a younger brother and standing in his brother’s shadow that habits learned young are hard to overcome, and whether it’s humility or helpfulness, it’s also not always as healthy a virtue as one might expect. Ned’s humility has made each campaign a living nightmare. Jon’s urge to make himself helpful might be an acute form of torture, when what he really wants is to lock himself in that dark basement.

“I’m his father. It should be me.” Ned held Robb, a little squalling, wrinkly faced newborn wrapped tightly in a blue edged blanket and he buried him draped in a flag, and now he will pack up in boxes the accumulation of a short life, so no stranger’s hands disturb what was his son’s. “Go out and do something today instead. Get a little fresh air.”

Staying in the basement forever is not an option that Ned fears will end well, and he has no plans to bury another son.

“I mentioned it because I thought there might be some things you’d want. Pictures maybe. Whatever it is you might want. You probably know what he has up there better than the rest of us.”

The muscle in Jon’s jaw becomes more prominent, as he glares down at his hands, fingers digging into the thighs of his jeans, which are too damn tight to possibly be comfortable.

“You won’t find anything up there that would embarrass you.”

Ned knows the expectations he places on his sons, on all his children—to be good, honorable, service minded citizens who put the needs of the people ahead of themselves—would seem unrealistic to some, but he doesn’t demand perfection. He loves them for their flaws as much as their successes. Whatever is up there to uncover, he isn't afraid of it.

“I know, son. I’m not worried about that. You’ve made me proud.”

Jon mumbles something, while rubbing the back of his neck. It might be thanks, but it just as easily could be a refusal to accept Ned’s praise. Robb was better equipped to accept his father’s approval, being born into the role of heir to the Stark tradition. But it’s long past time for Jon to feel like more than an interloper in their family.

So he offers Jon Robb’s room, and unsurprisingly, Jon refuses it without much of a pause.

“It would be a good chance for you to move out of the basement.”

Without a bedroom to spare, when Jon came to them they scrambled to covert the basement home theater into a bedroom suite. Jon got his own space and there’d been less of an excuse to watch television, but Ned never much liked the solution. It felt too much like Jon was placed in storage. It was just one of the many things he and Cat argued about at the time. It was hard on her. It was hard on all of them.

“I wouldn’t feel right about it.”

“Robb would have wanted you to have it. You two spent an awful lot of time up there.” No doubt occasionally doing things they shouldn’t with that Theon Greyjoy boy from Jon’s class, who hung around here over school breaks so much that Cat once asked Ned whether they’d acquired yet another boy when she wasn’t paying attention.

Jon crosses his leg, balancing his ankle on his knee to pick at the rubber sole of his sneaker. He’s disappearing right before Ned’s eyes—a neat trick—when he finally says without looking up, “Why don’t you give the room to Sansa?”

“Has she ever even set foot inside of that room?”

“I dunno, but she’s his sister. It should be hers.”

“Sansa already has a perfectly good room right across the hallway,” Ned says nodding towards the door, which faces his daughter’s room. With his job keeping him away from home the vast majority of the time, Sansa almost always has this entire floor to herself. Cat doesn’t think it’s a totally unreasonable arrangement, since Sansa was until recently the only teenage girl in the house and family peace demanded that she and Arya no longer share a room. He signed the checks that paid for the new furniture and accessories and design consultation for the redesign of Sansa’s room, all to make her happy, and as a result, Robb’s room is a far cry from what she’s got now. “I don’t think she’ll want to switch.”

“Maybe, but it’s the top floor, best views. A view like that every morning might cheer her up.”

And Jon doesn’t have a view at all. “And what about you? You couldn’t do with a change?”

“I’m fine.”

Ned sighs, his fingers worrying his glass paperweight. “Well, you’ll have to be the one to try to sell her on it if that’s what you want, because I’m only going to offer it to you. What happens to it from here on out is up to you.”

…

It’s more exhausting than he could have imagined and even though it’s only four in the afternoon and he’s not more than a third of the way through Robb’s things, Ned retreats down two floors—taking the elevator, a rare concession to the limits of his body—to his and Cat’s bathroom to shower away some of the pain that clings to him, weighing down his shoulders and tightening the muscles in his back until he can barely stand straight.

Inside the bathroom brightly lit by a wide window that overlooks the garden below, he strips down, dumping his clothes unceremoniously all over the heated marble floor. Trancelike, he makes his way inside the shower stall, turns on the water, and stands beneath the spray of the rain showerhead. Time ceases to have meaning, as he leans against the cool slick of the white marble subway tiles, letting the wall support his weight with his head hung forward and the hot water run down his neck and back, until he hears the muffled sounds of the bathroom door opening and shutting.

Cat must be back. Thank God. His thoughts of packing Robb off to boarding school and college and the service and now forever, each time leaving more things behind in his room, are a painful maze of thorns. Better to have Cat at his side to scatter them.

“Ned?”

He straightens up with some effort and swipes the streaming water off his face. The change in the room’s temperature from the door to the bathroom opening makes his skin prickle and the hair on his body stand on end. He’s still blinking away water, when he realizes that it isn’t just the bathroom door that’s caused the air to change, it’s the opening of the frosted glass shower door.

Cat stands behind him with the top part of her body partially inside the shower. She’s naked to the waist, her ivory blouse gone, and her hair down, hanging over her pale, freckle dappled shoulders in a heavy curtain that doesn’t quite reach her dark, rosy nipples. One hand holds open the door, but the other is twisted behind her, struggling to unzip her pencil skirt.

“Turn around,” he instructs, stepping towards the open door and buttressing it with his shoulder so as to grip her zipper with wet, pruned fingers.

It’s the hidden button that must have been giving her trouble and by the time he’s managed it with wet hands, drops of water splotch the pale blue fabric. He tugs down on the zipper, and she shimmies the skirt over her hips, dropping it in a pile at her bare feet, as she discards her panties without comment on the damage he’s done to what is probably an expensive item of clothing and turns back to him.

With a hand splayed against his chest, she backs him further into the shower and the door closes behind the both of them. As he steps back, the pulse of water from the showerhead hits his back again, sending hot rivulets over his shoulders that she works to brush off, although more incessantly fall to replace the ones she’s smoothed away with her gentle touch. It helps unknot the tension there more so than the water has.

“Osha told me.”

She looks up at him and he can see her blue eyes starting to fill with tears.

“It had to be done.”

“Probably, but you shouldn’t have done it alone. I would have helped.”

“You’ve been here alone, managing everything.”

“That’s my job, honey.”

She takes on more and more with such grace and strength, even when he knows she’s wracked with pain. Sometimes he feels as if she doesn’t need him all, she’s so completely capable, but he couldn’t let her take on this too. He has to leave again on Monday and he doesn’t know if he’ll manage to finish going through Robb’s things tomorrow after they come home from church, but either this weekend or the next, he’ll do it. He can do this one thing for her.

“Even if I’m not doing a very good job of it.”

“Cat.”

He knows he’s grim and solemn. He worries in the time since their whole world changed he’s been little comfort to her. He feels more in his heart than he says, but what use are unspoken feelings?

“I’m failing at everything. No, I am. Ned, I don’t think I can take this,” she says, her shoulders beginning to shake with checked sobs.

Losing their son is the hardest thing Ned’s ever lived through and there are no rules, no guide, no regiment to follow to make it any easier. He can barely help himself, but his children need his help, Cat needs his help.

There's one thing he might do for her if she’ll let him.

Even barefoot his wife is tall; it doesn’t take more than the slightest tilt of his head to bring his lips down to hers. They’re soft from her moisturizing lip balm. He recognizes the vaguely peppermint taste of it on his tongue, but it’s washed away quickly by the water that continues to drip from his face, making his slow kisses, wet, as he works her lips apart, tugging, sucking, pulling. For a second he thinks he might taste salt, so he slides them both under the water to wash away tears too.

Touching her doesn’t exactly make his heart skip the way it did in the beginning, when he was raw from what felt like the loss of the love of his life despite Lyanna's betrayal. Cat might be the only woman he fantasizes about, but it’s not because of the lure of the new and unknown. It’s a familiar comfort they’ve earned over the years and it does something better than just make his pulse pound.

Her breasts are warm and heavy in his hands, a weight he knows well, and under the pads of his thumbs her nipples become hard, forming peaks he’s worried with his tongue enough to anticipate how long, how hard, how much to make her squirm. The indent of her waist seems shaped to his hand, as he turns her around and holds her against his chest, his hand spread over her slightly soft stomach after five babies. Kissing at her exposed neck, dragging his teeth over the one spot she loves, everything starts to melt away, as her body tucks against his, the flare of her hip and the rise of her ass fitting to him like hand and glove.

He knows his wife better than he knows anyone else. Sometimes when he’s with her, it’s not just pleasure and relief, sometimes it’s a reassurance of their love, that someone understands, that they’re alive. It’s a comfort to disappear inside of someone else, who is always there to hold you up. He could use some of that right now.

She could too. Although they haven’t been together since the news arrived—something he’s understood without question—she rocks into him, her skin all warm and wet and slick, making him grow hard against her backside, and he knows they’re both ready.

“The bed,” he murmurs against her ear.

It might be tempting, but he’d better not attempt sex here in this glass and marble shower. Despite the fact that he can still lift her up, he’s afraid in his current physical and mental state, he might drop her against the slippery shower walls.

Not bothering with toweling off, they leave a wet trail of puddles on the tile and carpeting, as they abandon the bathroom for their bed, where they knock off oversized, grey and white pillows and peel back the plush feather comforter. The overhead light is off and the sheers are drawn behind the heavy grey curtains to keep out the late afternoon sun's hot rays. They exist in a soft, hazy light, as Cat crawls beneath the sheets and he joins her, tucking a wet, darkened strand of hair behind her ear. It was the thing he was attracted to the most at first—her beautiful hair. He wanted to touch it, wrap it around his fist and test the strength of it.

There’s something oddly calming and cocoon like about being sopping wet beneath the sheets with his body atop hers. Even more so once he’s sheathed inside of her and her hands press against his back, urging him on. Her body is known to him: there is no nervousness that he won’t be able to please her or that she won’t end up pleasing him. This is a dance they both know.

“Just like this,” she says, locking her ankles behind his back.

Even her soft assurances are welcome in their familiarity.

She moves beneath him, meeting each thrust with a rock of her pelvis, driving him deeper. After weeks of not touching her, it isn't long when he wants to groan loudly with the effort of holding himself back until she comes, but he doesn’t know where the kids are or if Osha might be in the boys’ room across the hall, so he swallows the sound, holds tight to her hip, and quickens his pace, while thinking of anything but the bounce of her breasts against his chest and the rub of her thigh against his waist and the snugness of her around his dick.

Cat’s a little less careful in her vocalizations. Kisses only smother so much sound.

He whispers encouragement, urging her to come, calling her endearments he’s usually too awkward to say outside of their bed, and when she tightens around him, he plunges into her in relief, driving himself to completion as her fingernails dig into his skin and she gasps against his shoulder, while her body flutters around him. Thank God he can still do this for her. Thank God she wants him and doesn’t blame him for the death of their son. Thank God they have each other. Thank God it was her all those years ago that he met and fell in love with, because there’s no one else he could survive this with.

Cat insists Rickon needn’t be their last; she hasn’t been on birth control for the last six months. Still, things may have changed with the death of their son, so he hesitates as his balls tighten, sweat dripping off his brow as he hovers over her, wondering whether he should pull out.

Her jaw sets with determination, as she grasps his ass tight, holding him to her. “Come.”

He feels almost hollowed out, strangely emptied, and suddenly useless, when he collapses alongside of her. So he reaches for the Kleenex box tucked behind the vase of white roses on the bedside table to assist her with something for just a moment more. There are always fresh flowers by their bedside and in the entry hall and sitting atop the dining room table. They’re changed every three days. Sometimes they appear other places as well. The first flowers he ever gave her were roses, and sometimes he finds them on his desk, placed there by her hands—just one of the many things his wife sees to, making all of their lives better.

She gives him a watery smile and takes more than one tissue from the box.

By the time she’s seen to herself and tossed the used tissues in the wastebasket, she’s shivering. The AC is hard at work on this humid day and they’re both still wet, so he pulls the comforter up higher about their necks. With a sigh she moves closer to him, inching over to share the same sodden pillow. Eventually they’ll have to crawl out of this bed and go about the rest of their day, but not just yet.

With their noses almost touching, she breaks the silence.

“Every morning I wake up remembering that he’s gone. Ned, sometimes I think I should have died too.”

That makes his heart pound, but not in the good way.

“It can’t be that way. I need you.”

“Do you?”

“Of course. And the children.” He swallows, slipping his arm over her waist, drawing her to his body. “You have to stay.”

He might have the big political career, but Cat is the stuff that holds them together. Cat’s everything.

“If you say so, Ned.”

He kisses the cold tip of her nose.

“I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspiration pictures for Ned’s office and Ned and Cat’s bedroom suite can be viewed [here](http://justadram.tumblr.com/post/55886619315/the-upcoming-ned-chapter-of-acofaf-features-some). Just a reminder of the characters currently running blogs: [Sansa](http://makepinklemonade.tumblr.com), [Margaery](http://ahighgardenrose.tumblr.com), and [Dany](http://princessofapalacecracked.tumblr.com). You can also follow [me](http://justadram.tumblr.com) for sneak peeks and more inspiration photos.
> 
> Also, a little plug for [gameofships](http://gameofshipschallenges.tumblr.com), the challenge blog I run along with khaleesa. If you enjoy writing, creating graphics, fanmixes, art, etc. of the AU variety, check out our current AU challenge, Golden Ships. We'd love to have new participants and lots of supporters.
> 
> Up next is Jon. The content should warm the hearts of you Jon/Sansa shippers.


	10. Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s what Ned suggested he do today—get out and get some fresh air—but Sansa's invitation to join her in the park with the boys is an unexpected one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Golden Ships resulted in a little break in the updating schedule, but I should be back on track now. Thank you for your patience! I did post some A City stuff in the meantime, so if between updates you're looking for content or just want to fangirl with me, follow me at [justadram](http://justadram.tumblr.com/). Dany's up again next!

Chapter Nine: Jon

When Sansa stood leaning against the door to his room in a blue sundress different from the one she’d had on at breakfast, her painted toes curling in the beige carpet, he must have taken too long to respond to her question, _You want to come to Central Park with me and the boys?_ Because she finally added with a tilt to her head, _I could use the help_.

It’s what Ned suggested he do today—get out and get some fresh air—and Sansa most definitely could use his help. Even taking Rickon alone somewhere was something of a challenge and adding Bran to the mix made it a juggling act. So between satisfying Ned and helping out Sansa, he shouldn’t have hesitated, but it just wasn’t a request he was expecting. Even as he pushes Bran’s wheelchair down the sidewalk with Sansa at his side, her heels clacking on the concrete and Rickon’s hand clutched in hers, he’s still trying to remember when the last time Sansa was even in his room. And he’s coming up totally empty.

He assumed that the knock on the door was Arya. She was the most likely culprit to turn up, looking for a movie or an album or with demands that he play some video game with her immediately. Sansa was a wholly unexpected visitor, which is why he didn’t bother to flip on a table lamp or pull on a shirt, when he called to her to come in from his stretched out position on his bed.

It was supposed to be Arya, damn it, his little sister, who’d seen him at his worst already and wouldn’t think anything of his being sprawled out atop an unmade bed and staring blankly at the ceiling. At least he isn’t a slob, because he doubts Sansa’s room has anything out of place and it would be just another reason for her to think less of him.

_I’m sorry, did I wake you?_

_No, I’m up._ He cursed under his breath, grabbing for his discarded t-shirt and tugging it over his head. _Sorry_.

Her face said that she didn’t quite understand what he was sorry about and maybe he didn’t either, but something about the whole scenario made him jumpy. Probably he should talk to his counselor about it if having Robb’s sister turn up in his room is enough to set him on edge. It’s just Sansa Stark for Christ’s sake.

He ends up reminding himself of that several times on their walk to the park, as he stumbles for things to say to her. Thankfully, she does most of the work, filling the silences with chatter that’s cheerful and pleasant and easy enough to fall into. There’s even this game she comes up with for the boys about counting how many red cars they see along 5th Avenue, which is oddly calming, considering he’s hyper vigilant about cars anyway ever since he came home from Afghanistan. He plays along in his head, catches a few cars that the boys miss, and feels a little less crazy. The red car game works better than the breathing exercises that only get the job done half the time, which are pretty shitty odds.

The park doesn’t turn out too bad either. The East 72nd Street playground is the closest to their townhouse, but for years now they’ve made it a habit to make the trek the accessibility playground across from Mt. Sinai, so Bran doesn’t just have to sit and watch all the other kids. Jon’s been along on enough of these family trips to the park that he’s familiar with the area and doesn’t spend too much time examining it with a soldier’s eye, assessing every blind corner around every tunnel for something sinister. He can just be a kid or at least act like one for a few minutes. He runs after Bran and Rickon, as they fly up and down the wheelchair ramps, making them whoop and holler like a pair of banshees. It feels pretty damn good being with his brothers, getting out in the sun, doing something other than getting stuck in his thoughts. Exercise is definitely good, he thinks, as he feels the blood pumping through his veins and his chest inflating with oxygen. Doing sit ups in his room maybe isn’t cutting it. His counselor might be right that finding a physical outlet would be good for him.

But it’s hot out—too hot for his black t-shirt and jeans—so it’s a relief when he sees Sansa make her way over to a bench with her big sunglasses pushed back on her head, because it gives him an excuse to do the same. He tells the boys where they’ll be sitting and goes over to her. When he sits beside her with one leg stuck out and brushes back the hair that flops into his line of sight, he’s still breathing harder than normal.

“All worn out?” she asks with a little smirk.

“Hot.”

“You might not want to wear jeans next time.” Obviously. “Or would that ruin your cred, cool guy?”

“Right. Cool.”

“Sun’s strong today,” she says and then startles slightly, grabbing for her purse.

She’s digging in it for something, when she calls out to the boys, motioning them over. Rickon looks like he’s going to ignore her, so Jon waves him in with a frown, despite the fact that he has no idea what it is Sansa intends on doing with the small white bottle with silver writing on it that she has pulled from her purse and uncapped.

“Come here,” she beckons to Rickon first, who looks like he’s about to dance right out of his skin in his eagerness to get back to the playground.

“I don’t want it,” he whines.

“You know the rules.”

As she squeezes the stuff onto the tip of her finger, he realizes its SPF, although it doesn’t look like the thick drugstore kind.

“Well, it looks like I don’t,” Jon says. “Do you always have that in your purse?”

It’s such a mom thing that he can’t help but smile. Do twenty year old girls really worry about stuff like this? Ygritte was as pale as Sansa and covered in freckles. She obviously didn’t care.

“Yes,” she says, smearing the liquid over the bridge of Rickon’s little snub nose. “This Irish skin of ours doesn’t like the sun. I should have put it on them before we left,” she says, rubbing another blob into Rickon’s outstretched forearm. “You didn’t remind me,” she says, squinting her eyes and pursing her lips at her youngest brother. She gives his arm a tug. “Trickster.”

He receives all this attention and faux reproach with a toothy smile. Rickon’s not usually so complacent, but Jon suspects he just wants to get this over with so he can run back out onto the playground.

“There you go,” she says, finishing with Rickon and leaning forward to give Bran the same quick treatment.

Bran wrinkles his nose, as she attempts to dab it on his cheek. “It smells like a girl.”

“Stop wriggling. I forgot your lotion at the house. This is what I’ve got.”

Bran looks pretty miserable about the prospect, so Jon offers him the only consolation he can come up with. “Girls smell nice.”

“I’m glad you think so. You’re next,” Sansa says with a quick wink over her shoulder at him.

The suggestion makes Bran laugh and stop squirming away from her hand in his chair long enough for her to finish. It’s not as thorough a job as she did on Rickon, but she pulls a face at him and sends him on his way with a dismissive wave of her hands and then sets to work on herself, tipping a little more lotion into her hands.

“Don’t worry,” she assures him. “I won’t slather you up.” He can feel himself flushing, as he pictures Sansa doing exactly that. “Although, you know where to find it the next time you find yourself wanting to smell like a girl.”

He coughs. “Thanks.”

“Anytime. Just don’t let me forget the cheap stuff the next time we take the boys out. This costs a small fortune.”

Next time. That’s the second time she’s said that today, but this is the first time he’s ever taken the boys anywhere alone with Sansa. Meanwhile, she’s already planning a next time. Either she’s trying to help out her mother or Osha and could use another hand herself or her asking him to join her means she thinks he’s a bit pathetic and is looking for an excuse to include him in stuff. Yeah, it wouldn’t be an unreasonable assessment. He is a little pathetic holed up in the basement, staring up at the ceiling in the dark—Christ, why couldn’t it have been Arya?

Her hand swipes up over her forearm, and he looks away out over the playground, watching as Bran pushes himself through one of the wider tunnels, his screams echoing inside.

“We should rent a boat next time.”

“A boat with those two monkeys?” he asks, pointing at their combined antics.

“Afraid to get wet?” she says, pausing in her application to nudge him in the side with her elbow.

“Of sinking like the Titanic, maybe.”

“No, that would be bad, but you and I could go. They rent them at Loeb Boathouse. Have you ever done it?”

“No.” It’s kind of a couple’s thing, he always assumed.

“Me either. We should try to do lots of new things before the summer is over. Make a list and just check them off as we go. It feels really good to check something off a list.”

This is starting to feel like a campaign to get him out of the house. “Did your father talk to you about me?” It’s a humiliating prospect.

She puts the cap back on her lotion, cocking a brow at him. “Daddy and I rarely have heart to hearts. Why, should he have?”

He fidgets, his fingers twitching against his jeans, feeling ridiculous.

“Forget it.” There’s no alteration to her face, but he can tell by the way she tears her eyes from his that she’s misunderstood. “I had a talk with your dad this morning and…”

She fills in the silence, politely ignoring his explanation that is going nowhere. “Okay.”

“I’ll do it. I’m not promising I’ll know how to row it though.” And her skinny arms don’t look like they’ll be much help.

Her whole body language shifts, as she sits forward and hitches her shoulders up, a motion mirrored by the upward tick of her facial muscles.

“I don’t have a clue either. Maybe we can waste an entire day, floating around like a pair of rubes.”

Maybe she’s right. Maybe he does need to just go out and do something, anything to try to fill up his hours as much as humanly possible, so he’s not constantly, obsessively thinking and worrying and hating himself. It’s working so far. He hasn’t had one dark thought since Sansa ushered them through the doors of the house and down the steps.

“Sounds good.”

It does. Especially if it makes him feel like he does right now.

“Careful, please,” she yells, as Rickon executes a particularly daredevil leap off a ramp.

“What are you reading?” he asks, spying a book peeking out of her purse, as she drops the SPF bottle inside.

“ _Looking for Alaska_.”

“What’s it about?”

“Uh, depressing teen stuff. I’m sort of working my way through his novels,” she says, showing him the cover. “And they’re all a little depressing so far. I’m just trying to read more. I kind of stopped for a while. You know, because I was just _so_ busy.” She rolls her eyes at herself. “Little Miss Social.”

She’s not exactly Miss Social anymore. He hasn’t seen any of her friends at the house, and he doesn’t think she’s gone out since she went to the club with her friend Margaery and what's his name, Margaery’s brother. She didn’t come down for breakfast the next day even though she wasn’t out that late. She got in pretty early, considering. He waited up to listen for the front door, which was easy enough, since it echoes right above his bed. Maybe her night out didn’t go exactly as she’d hoped it would.

“I could recommend some books to you, unless you only want to read depressing teen stuff,” he says, taking the book from her and flipping it over.

“What would you recommend? Depressing adult stuff?”

He gives her a sidelong look “Would that be so awful? You’re not a teen anymore.”

Sometimes he forgets. All of the Stark kids seem stuck at the age he left them and went off a soldier to war. But she definitely is not a teen anymore. More than the flip of the calendar separates her from her teen years. She's clearly matured in the past year. Loss has a way of doing that.

“I know that, but that doesn’t mean I want to read your type of books.”

“My type. What is my type?”

She crosses one leg over the other, letting her foot bounce. “More brooding, less cute boys?”

He hands her back the book. “Yeah, that pretty much sums them up.”

He’s read _A Farewell to Arms_ twice since getting home and he hates it as much as he loves it. He read it in boarding school before he could even understand the bleakness of a man broken by war. It means something different to him now, but she’s not wrong. Sometimes he reads it hoping the ending will be different and it will be a harbinger of things maybe turning out differently for him. Sansa might write the back cover: more brooding, less cute boys.

If pressed, however, he can probably come up with some depressing books that still have a cute boy or two. “ _The Great Gatsby_.”

“Saw the movie. Leo’s cute.”

He groans.

She bites her lip. “You’re way too easy to tease. No, I read it in high school. Or the CliffsNotes maybe.”

He clutches his chest. “Twist the knife.”

“Our tastes are not exactly copasetic. Never have been.”

That is mostly true. They certainly haven’t ever been close and part of that has to do with how different they are, but maybe it also was just bad timing. She was younger, when he joined the Stark family, but not young enough that he could take care of her, stepping into the role of big brother effortlessly the way he did with the new baby. Sansa had been for some time Robb’s only sibling, his little sister, and when he became Robb’s friend, that pretty much eliminated any possibility that he and Sansa could share a friendship. Funny thing about guys: they don’t generally like for you to pal around with their sisters.

“I don’t know,” he says leaning back into the bench and draping one arm over its back, watching Rickon scamper over a tunnel instead of through it. “When you went through that _Little Mermaid_ phase, I think I watched her comb her hair with a fork at least one hundred times. It wasn’t so bad.”

She laughs, her head tipping back, exposing the curve of her pale neck. “What do mean _phase_? I still happen to think that’s a really excellent movie. She’s an inspirational heroine for us redheads.”

 _Former_ redheads.

He’s about to say _an Oscar caliber performance_ , when he hears a gunshot. He’s only half aware of the world around him, as he curls forward, tucking his head between his knees and pressing his hands over his ears, trying to stop the assault of sound and light that is triggered in his brain. It’s relentless. Gritting his teeth, he tries to master it. It’s a drain he’s circling, fighting not to succumb to the pull. Jon? Jon? Jon? His name floats to him from far away like the whisper of the wind through the leaves. He tries counting back from ten, tries to lift his head to look at his surroundings and count kids, tries to focus on the smell of mulch and grass to remind himself that they’re at a playground. It wasn’t a gunshot. He’s not back there. He rocks back and forth, like a damn nut job, but he can't help himself, because the counting isn’t working.

At first he’s barely aware of her hand on his arm, stilling his movements, but then he feels her rubbing his back, as she whispers his name. She’s freaked out, he can tell by the tone of her voice, as she pushes back his hair and bends down low enough that he can feel her breath on his cheek. He knows he’s sweating like a pig, but all he can do is breathe through his flared nostrils, trying to slow his heart rate. He can’t warn her not to touch him, because he’s a sweaty mess.

There’s another voice, a little boy’s, young enough to be still girlish, added to the chorus of disembodied sounds. It must be Rickon or Bran or both. Everything is still too foggy—a rush of blood through his veins and her touch and popping lights behind his eyelids—to be certain.

He only catches snippets. “All right…brother’s fine…hot…go back… watching you.”

She rubs slow circles on his back. He focuses on the soft pressure, biting the inside of his cheek to bring focus to the pain. He should have warned her. He shouldn’t have agreed to come here with a world of triggers waiting to hurl him into an episode without telling her what she was potentially getting herself into. She’s never seen one. They’re terrifying to him and they have to be nearly as bad for the person watching.

“Jon, honey? You are okay, aren’t you?”

He breathes out hard, forcing himself to sit upright. He squints into the sun, his chest rising and falling too fast, every muscle bunched tight. Grass, mulch, kids playing, fifteen of them, nope, sixteen with one in the tunnel, Sansa’s hand on his shoulder, her thumb worrying the seam of his t-shirt, the smell of her floral shampoo, ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one. One. One. One. One.

Fuck.

When he opens his mouth to apologize, to assure her that he’s not about to kill her or somebody else, which is what some people must think when they hear, Veteran, PTSD, all that comes out is a string of curses in an exhausted rush. It’s filthy shit he’d normally never say in front of her or any other woman, and he scrubs his face when his mouth finally stops, trying to work back to who he is beneath this wreck of a person.

“What _was_ that?” he asks.

“The noise? A car on 5th Avenue. Backfiring, I guess.”

A car. A stupid, fucking car. “God, I’m a real head case.”

“No, no you’re totally fine, but you frightened me a little bit.”

He swallows hard and makes himself look at her, her face pinched together, her eyes blinking, looking like she’s on the verge of tears. “I wouldn’t have hurt you.”

“I know. I was frightened _for_ you.”

“I’m okay.”

“Of course you are,” she says firmly with a little nod. “It’s over, right?”

All he can manage is a jerk of his head in response. Hopefully it’s over. It feels like it is. He knows where he is. She’s here. The boys are just a few feet away. None of them have been shot.

Her fingers brush the sweaty curls at the back of his neck, lifting them away, and he feels his shoulders settle by an inch.

“Arya said they were bad. I mean, that was an episode, right?”

“Yeah.”

Not even a particularly bad one. He didn’t lose his touch with reality entirely. But even these half assed episodes are enough to drain him. It feels as if there’s a thundercloud developing between his eyes—a tension headache.

“I need a shower.” And a dark room.

“Do you need to leave? We can go.”

She stops touching him to reach for her purse, and his eyes track her hand’s movement, wishing he’d kept his mouth shut. Her hand was tethering him to this place, so he doesn’t completely disappear. His counselor says he needs to find things that ground him by using his senses—bite a lemon, hold onto a cube of ice, concentrate on colors around him, eat a strong peppermint, listen to music, all stupid little mind tricks—when the fuzziness starts creeping in, which signals an oncoming episode. All those tricks made him feel nuts, but with her hand on him, he understood what the counselor means about letting other people help ground you.

“Give me a second. I can’t get up just yet.”

“It’s okay. There’s no rush. The boys are having fun,” she says, waving at Rickon with a fake smile that drops as soon as he hops in the other direction with a stick in his hand like a vaguely threatening Easter Bunny. “We’ll leave when we’re all good and ready.”

Her hand covers his. He’s gripping his knee hard enough to bruise, but he eases up and lets her work her fingers between his.

“I thought maybe you didn’t have them anymore.”

Her voice is soothing and sympathetic without sounding quite like she pities him.

“They’re not as bad as they were, but I have triggers. I should have warned you.”

She shakes off his apology with a frustrated little humming noise. “Triggers. Like noises? Is it why you hang out in your room?”

He was worried only minutes ago about her seeing him in his room, looking like some depressive shut-in, and now a car backfiring has him shaking like a Chihuahua. Puts things in perspective on the scale of how much mortification he can stomach.

“The city can be a bit much.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”

This is exactly what he doesn’t want. People thinking they have to walk on eggshells around him, alter their lives to fit his craziness. He pinches the bridge of his nose. If the headache gets too bad, there’s a chance he might puke. That would be a real cherry on top of the sundae.

“Don’t be. It’s part of getting better, exposing myself to it, dealing with it.”

It just so happens that the exposure therapy can turn into a brutally embarrassing scenario like today has.

“Headache?” she asks, poking around in her purse kind of awkwardly with her left hand until she retrieves a little travel size bottle of Advil. “Can you take them dry?”

“I’m good at taking pills,” he assures her flatly, as he lets go to work the childproof cap and tap two into his palm.

He tosses them back, swallows. It feels like they’re stuck and he coughs twice.

“What else you got in there, Mary Poppins?” he asks, trying to make the muscles around his mouth smile.

She’s got Advil and sunscreen and maybe she stores her gentle manner in there too. Practically perfect in every way.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” she asks, grabbing his hand again and pulling it into her lap. “A girl’s purse is top secret.”

He stares at their clasped hands. Anyone walking by would think they were a couple. Sansa’s naturally affectionate. She has a hug for everyone. She’s always touching people, while she talks, while she listens. That’s all this is, Sansa’s usual way—directed at him in a way he’s unaccustomed to—but if you didn’t know that about her, you might get the wrong idea and think they were just another couple in the park. He’s only been part of a couple once. Another redhead, what feels like a lifetime ago, and a really sad ending. Nothing like Disney’s _The Little Mermaid_.

“What are they like? The episodes?”

He exhales, digging the toe of his sneaker into the packed dirt beneath their bench. “You sure you want to hear about it?”

He hates recounting them with his counselor. It’s so clinical, when what he’s going through feels anything but rational. But who else is there to talk to? Arya’s just a kid and he can’t add to Ned’s burdens.

“I do, unless you don’t want to talk about it.”

He doesn’t usually, but he thinks maybe Sansa understands more than she lets on, like her frothy sweetness is just the surface, waiting to be scratched.

“They’re like I’m there again, reliving it.”

She leans into him, her bare shoulder pressing into his. He stares down at the skirt of her dress beneath their hands, counting the red and white sailboats that sail across the blue of the cotton fabric. Something like the boat she probably isn’t going to want to rent with him anymore after seeing how poorly an outing with him can turn out. It wasn’t even his idea to row a boat around a little lake, but the thought that she won’t offer again, makes him scrunch his eyes up tight, fighting off irrational disappointment.

“Sometimes at night I can’t sleep thinking about how horrible it must have been for you and Robb, while I was screwing around at school.”

He sniffs and rubs the back of his right hand under his nose. “Don’t beat yourself up about that. That’s where you belong—at school with your friends.”

“Friends,” she says with an exaggerated lilt to her voice. “Well, I’m not going back. I mean, I’m going to take a semester off.”

He glances at her and sees the way she’s biting the corner of her lip, like she’s testing the reaction that statement elicits for the first time. She can’t have told her parents yet. Catelyn’s been rushing around, buying everyone their back to school supplies and he saw stuff for Sansa on the list clipped to the frig. That’s probably a conversation he’d be dreading too if he was in Sansa’s shoes, which happen to be pretty little red wooden heels that are totally not playground friendly.

“I need time.” Her eyes scan the playground, her fingers shifting against his. “We all just need time.”

He hopes there’s some truth to that, although the old saying about time and wounds doesn’t feel particularly accurate. As the months pass, his wounds feel less raw, but they still bother him like a crusted scab that he can’t help but scratch, and he can’t imagine it ever being any different. Not when these episodes break them open again and again.

“That seems reasonable—a little time off. Just don’t spend it beating yourself up.

“You’re going to tell me you don’t?”

“Oh, I’m a pro at it.” His throat tightens. “I got home and felt guilty that I was here and Robb was over there.” He felt guilty that his friends and Ygritte were dead and he was in New York, eating Sansa’s mom’s home cooked meals, watching television in the damn air conditioning too. “Still do.” He shrugs. “I should have been with him.”

She rests her head on his shoulder. “I meant it, you know.”

“What?”

“I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad you’re with me, and we can remember him together.”

His chest clenches.

She talks. She reminisces. She makes him laugh the way Robb used to, recounting things she remembers from when he and Robb would come home from boarding school, dragging back smelly laundry and purposefully forgetting their books. The _I can conquer the world_ confidence that Robb had even in high school. His easy way with people, and how sometimes he still managed to make noteworthy mistakes. Particularly with girls.

The minutes stretch on, and when she asks again, softly, “You wanna go?” he realizes he doesn’t, not quite yet.

At some point with her weight against him and her fingers toying with his, while they watched his brothers work on wearing themselves completely out under the afternoon sun and he listened to her talk happily about her brother, he stopped wishing he was in his room with the lights out, stopped thinking about rocking himself back and forth until he fell asleep. He’ll sleep later. Right now they’re supposed to be enjoying themselves at the park. He’s tired and his head is throbbing, but they’re all together and it’s okay.

“You hungry?” She barely touched her breakfast. She’s got to be. “Because ice cream sounds really good.”

She sits upright and adjusts the sunglasses atop her head. “The boys are never going to turn down ice cream.”

“Are you? My treat.”

“Well, in that case,” she says with a slow smile. “I’m going to have to get sprinkles.”

It might be better than okay before the day’s over, and that’s all right. None of them should have to feel guilty about that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New locations in this chapter. So, here's a [peek](http://justadram.tumblr.com/post/57528527751/two-locations-coming-up-in-the-jon-chapter-of) at Jon's room and the playground in Central Park they go to. I thought it went without saying, but there seems to have been some confusion, so I'll just add that I don't actually style these inspiration pictures. I was looking for a bedroom that looked like it could be in the basement, potentially have been a home theater once upon a time, and was masculine and had a couple elements of Jon's style. That doesn't mean his room wouldn't have any personal items in it. You just have to imagine those yourself. ;)


	11. Dany

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dany's almost certain her extravagant charity event will not only be the best of the year, but also genuinely help those in need.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you following [Dany](http://princessofapalacecracked.tumblr.com/)?

Chapter Ten: Dany

Dany stops halfway down the Step and Repeat, makes a joke for the paparazzi, pops a hip out, and waits for the flashes. Her brother is four steps behind her, looking bored and maybe even a little pissed off with his hands in his pockets and his mouth a thin, flat line. Couldn’t he at least pretend for the photogs? Yes, they argued in the limo, but it’s always the same old argument.

He might refuse to be professional about this, but she can’t afford to be as petty. Right now she needs to focus on her smile, so the pictures in tomorrow’s papers and blogs will be pretty enough to rise to the top, drawing attention to her charity to help prevent sex trafficking of young girls in developing countries. The donations they collect tonight will be used to purchase bicycles for at risk girls, so they can ride to school or work, better themselves and make money for their families, all to help keep them safe. She’s been planning this event for months, every detail, right down to the twinkling lights hung in the dark blue ceiling overhead, looking like a starry night sky over the desert—a desert with champagne and dessert always close at hand.

And it was well worth the effort, because Meereen looks beautiful, she thinks, as she steps through the arched doorway, and peers around. At the back of the vaulted room is the pyramid, cut from copper and embossed to look as if it was constructed brick by brick like the step pyramids in Central America. The lights bounce off of it, creating just the effect she’d hoped for when she dreamt it up. The lights and the decorations and the undercurrent of exotic music with its heavy beat are bound to impress, bound to draw more donations.

She doesn’t have long to admire her work and imagine all the smiling faces of the anonymous girls she’ll be helping, when a hand closes tightly around her elbow and jerks, spinning her dangerously in her heels to the side.

“We’re not done.” There’s nothing vague about the menace in Viserys’ face now that there’s no camera pointed at them. His pale eyes narrow at her, his lip curls, and his fingers dig painfully into her bare arm. “I need that money. I need you to give me your check.”

Dany’s done that before, countless times: given her brother her monthly allowance check from her parents’ estate, because he’d spent all of his. She doesn’t know how he manages to spend it so quickly every month, sometimes before he’s even been given the check, but she has her suspicions he’s gambling it away on risky ventures and shady people in a desperate attempt to reclaim imagined past glories. He’s always trying to impress someone, trying to prove the Targaryens are better than everyone else. It doesn’t look good on him.

“I can’t this month. I told you, I spent this month’s check on the event.”

“On this?” he asks, gesturing towards the crowded room with a sneer, as if it isn’t the most beautiful charity event of the year.

“Yes, on this.”

Her monthly check and more. This was quite the expensive venture. Everything sparkles in gold. It was her number one requisite when meeting with the party planner. Even the food will be gold, Missy assured her. It is, she realizes, as a waiter comes by with a round tray of tiny chocolate cups filled with raspberry crème topped with a flake of edible gold.

“Have a drink or two and find some girls to talk to, why don’t you,” she says, picking one of the chocolate confections off the tray.

He snorts. “I’m never going to find an interesting girl to talk to at this pathetic party of yours.”

She nibbles at the chocolate, the tartness of the raspberry making her taste buds water. “Didn’t know they had to be interesting.” His thumb digs harder into her flesh, and she tugs, surreptitiously trying to free herself from his painful grasp, but his grip it too tight. She opens her eyes wider. “Let go of me, Viserys. Right now.”

He releases her. “I’ve got bigger things to worry about than sex slaves a world away. You should too.”

Her voice rises, but the music of the room keeps anyone from noticing the disagreement brewing between her and her brother. “Tell me what I should be worried about. What is so damn important? Quickly. I have guests to meet.”

“Me.”

Of course. Viserys thinks he’s the center of the universe. “Right, well, I think you’ll have to just make do for the time being, because as I told you, I spent this month’s money on renting Meereen. You’ll have to wait for your next check just like I’ll have to wait for mine.”

“I can’t wait. This is serious. If something happens to me…” he begins.

She’s actually a little worried by the way his posture changes, the way he looks as if he might crumple, when the rest of the words dry up in his mouth and his brows draw together. He’s irresponsible and makes terrible choices, but he’s her brother and she loves him. It’s always been the two of them, and if that means she has to bail him out of one bad business move after another, then that’s what she has to do. She’s about to reach out to brush back his pale blond hair and tell him they should have lunch tomorrow, talk about it, and she’ll help him figure something out, when she senses someone behind her. Viserys’ face closes, his shoulders square, looking like an affronted prince.

 “Barristan.”

Her brother does not sound happy to see their uncle, but Dany is. She looks up over her shoulder and smiles. Her uncle always looks very dashing, when he’s dressed formally, his white hair set off by the dark of his suit.

“Viserys,” their uncle says with a nod to her brother. “Dany, your guests are waiting for you.”

“He’s trying to politely say that we’re late. You know how she is. She took forever to get ready,” Viserys says, rolling his eyes.

It did take her longer than usual. She only wanted to look the part, and explaining to her hair and makeup artist, Irri, just how she wanted things done was something of a challenge given the alteration in her normal look. Her one shouldered, gossamer gown in ever darker shades of gold from one layer to the next is pinned at the shoulder with a large dragon brooch with ruby eyes—one of the pieces that belonged to her mother that was given to her under the terms of the estate when she turned twenty-one. She’s perfectly comfortable in it, since it isn’t so different from her usual party attire, but the rest of her look is a little daring. She chose a crown of braids for her hair and rather dramatic cat eyes, thinking they fit the mood she was hoping to create, and then worried whether she had gone too far. Viserys said he could probably sell her on the street corner.

 _You hit the nail on the head if you’re attempting to look like an actual sex slave_.

“Shall we go see Tyrion Lannister?”

“One of them came?” she says, ending on a growl of frustration.

“Not only came. I believe he’s written your foundation a rather sizable check tonight.”

Viserys doesn’t care about this or any of her charities, so at the first sign that things might turn into work, he disappears into the crowd, his blond head bobbing bright under the lights until she can’t see him any longer. She’s not eager to go to work either, and she suppresses a sigh at the thought of being dragged over to make chit chat with one of the Lannisters. They’re not her favorite people in the world. She can’t stand what Baratheon Industries stands for or the crimes that have been perpetrated by their government against civilians thanks to Baratheon tech. The Lannisters are literally and figuratively in bed with then. They fund their every despicable move, as far as she can tell, while smiling beautifully from the covers of shiny tabloids and newspapers.

She only sent an invitation to the Lannister offices, because she thought they might mail her a donation out of social obligation. She didn’t imagine they’d show their faces at her event, where she would have to smile and thank them. There are people she added to the list tonight not so much for their fat wallets or the ability to cut impressive checks but for their other praiseworthy attributes, whom she would much rather seek out. Daario should be here somewhere. It shouldn’t be hard to pick out his blue hair and tattooed sleeves in this staid crowd.

“A sizable donation?” she asks, slipping her arm through her uncle’s.

“Very sizable.”

“Color me shocked.”

“I wouldn’t say that exactly that when you speak with him,” her uncle says, bending down to murmur his suggestion in her ear.

And she doesn’t. Dany shakes Tyrion’s hand, is introduced to his petite date, who watches them with big, dark eyes, and launches into her speech about how much good his donation is going to do and how very thankful she is for it. She’s on her best behavior, smiling brightly, pretending not to loathe the very sight of him, but the same can’t be said for Tyrion. Before he ever opens his mouth, she suspects she won’t like what he has to say based on the grin he wears between sips of champagne. There’s a lot going on behind that smile, but she’s not sure she wants him to give voice to it.

Eventually her elaboration on the joys of bike ownership end, however, and he’s given the opportunity to speak. “I was happy to make the donation, Ms. Targaryen.”

“Please, call me Dany.”

“Happy to make the donation, _Dany_. But I’m not certain how much it’s actually going to help these unfortunate young women.”

Dany frowns. Her various charitable endeavors aren’t a screen for bloated salaries and lavish parties, although she knows there are charities that function for that purpose. She pays the bills out of her share of her parents’ estate, so that all donations go directly to those who need them.

“No, I assure you that it will. I paid for the hospitality you’ve enjoyed tonight,” she says with a nod towards the champagne in his hand. “All donations from our generous contributors will go directly to buying bicycles…”

“Oh, no,” he says, waving one hand. “I understand the process. The hang up I have is that I suspect buying these women bicycles isn’t the best way to go about solving the problem of sex slavery. How are you going to ensure that these bikes you’re sending them will remain in the possession of the women? Lock them to their ankles?”

“Excuse me?”

“Well, if their fathers or brothers are selling them into sex slavery, what will stop them from taking the bicycles and using them for their own purposes _and_ selling the women into slavery? They might take a fancy to those bikes, and I can’t think of one way we could prevent them from taking them. Can you?” He shrugs one shoulder and pops gold painted cordial into his mouth that his date has been holding on a black napkin for him. Speaking around the chocolate, he continues, “It’s like sending shoes to orphans. Well intentioned, but useless.”

Dany has done that too, and she slept better at night, thinking of those orphans with new sneakers.

She can feel the heat rising in her cheeks, and her uncle attempts to change the topic, mumbling something about postseason baseball, as he reaches for a glass of champagne from a waiter’s tray and passes it to her. She grips the stem too tightly and attempts a smile.

The music changes and she’s forced to raise her voice to be heard over it, which is fine, because she feels rather like yelling. “No, that’s all right. Let Mr. Lannister say what he thinks. It’s an interesting opinion.”

“An informed opinion,” Tyrion says, grinning back at her.

They both grin at her, Tyrion and his black haired date, like a pair of freshly carved jack-o’-lanterns. The woman looks as pleased by Tyrion’s rudeness as he is. Dany’s filled with hatred for them both, coming here to ruin her evening, to mock her efforts.

“Are you saying that my opinion, that my _charity_ is uninformed?”

“I’m saying that you don’t know how to run a charity.”

“And yet, you just made a donation to it,” she says, attempting to keep her voice light, as she tips her champagne flute back, swallowing half the glass in the process.

“Yes, because if you ever decide you want someone to assist you, who actually knows how to manage your money properly, perhaps my little contribution will be a reminder to you that I’m ready and willing.”

Dany nearly chokes, the bubbles burning the back of her throat. “What do you know about managing a charity?”

“Obviously you’re familiar with Lannister Mercantile.”

“Oh, yes. The business your father built, so that you and your spoiled brother can spend the profits?” she says through a fake smile.

“That’s the one. We both know a little something about spoiled brothers, don’t we?” he responds with a lift of his flute in a mock toast.

She’d like nothing more than to toss her drink in his face, when she feels her uncle’s hand press between her shoulder blades, as he clears his throat. “Would you excuse us? There are other guests we should greet.”

“Thank you again,” she grits out, turning her back on Tyrion and his pretty date.

Her nostrils flare and she closes her eyes for a half beat. She’d love to give back his filthy donation, but the girls need it. He’s wrong. They need those bicycles. Those bikes are going to change their lives and save them from a life of slavery.

Her uncle is trying to guide her through the crowd towards some other important person, whose hand needs to be pressed, but Dany can’t stomach it. She shrugs free of him, darting off to the side. Waving hello and kissing people’s cheeks, she slide by one after another attendee. Her mind is set on Daario, but it’s another big hand that stops her advance through the crowd.

“Evening, princess.”

Jorah Mormont was another name she added to tonight’s invitation list without any expectation of a substantial donation. Having not been by her uncle’s offices in the past few weeks, there had been no opportunity to run into him after their shared cab ride, but she thought he’d contact her, try to initiate something, so he could do more than undress her with his eyes. Sometimes she imagined she would say no if he did call and ask her out and sometimes she pictured herself saying yes. Why not? There have been half a dozen dates since she last saw him, two of them with Daario, but she’s not serious with anyone at the moment. There’s no reason she couldn’t entertain the possibility of a date with Jorah other than his not being particularly handsome.

But she didn’t get the chance to accept or reject him. It shouldn’t have been too hard for him to get her contact info, given his position at Barristan & Rakharo, but she’d never heard anything from him. It was his silence as much as the blatant interest he demonstrated in the cab that made her add his name to the event list.

“Sir Bear.” His hand closes around her arm as she leans forward to kiss him on both cheeks. “You see, I haven’t forgotten.”

“Neither have I. You made me curious, and I looked up the Mormont house motto.”

“Yes, what is it that I have to fear from House Mormont?”

“Nothing. It’s Here We Stand.”

She sips the last of her champagne and considers him, tilting her head. “Oh, that’s very good.”

“Is it?”

“Yes. Loyalty and courage. It’s what I value most in my guards. My knight in shining armor.” She pats his chest. He’s solid enough. Not the most handsome, but fit, just as she remembered him being. “Or at least a suit.”

“My best,” he says with a quirk of his mouth.

That might be the case, but she wonders whether he wouldn’t look better out of his suit than in it.

“It’s a good suit, but is it suitable for doing battle? I might have someone I need you to dispatch for me,” she says, wrinkling her nose at the thought of how Tyrion and his date stared at her, when he announced she didn’t know what she was doing.

“It’s a little constricting, but I can always take off the coat,” he says, taking the empty champagne flute from her and depositing it on a round bar height cocktail table draped in black that is within his reach. “Who is it I’m supposed to challenge?”

Dany leans in and rises up on the balls of her feet so no one will hear, gripping his shoulder. “Bring me the head of anyone with the last name Lannister and I’ll be thrilled beyond words. They’re all beastly.”

When he inclines his head to whisper, “And yet you invited them?” he’s close enough that his breath stirs the hairs that have pulled free of her braid behind her ear.

The air is pumping hard here at Meereen to keep all these bodies cool. Working a little too hard, since her dress is short and her arms are bare, and suddenly her whole body is alive with goose flesh. The inability to wear a bra with this dress is something of a liability in disguising such things.

“Strictly business. Unlike my invitation to you of course.”

“Which was?”

“Strictly pleasure.”

He raises one brow. “Are you drunk again?”

She laughs. It’s too blunt and a hair rude, but not meanly meant. Maybe they don’t teach etiquette in Michigan. “Not at all. Do I look it?”

“No, you look…” he struggles, his eyes lingering suggestively, where the layers of her gown sweep down over the rise of her left breast.

It would be stupid to tell him she’s cold.

She knows he appreciates her and that fishing for compliments is gauche, but she turns partly to the side and narrows her eyes at him, wanting to hear some word of praise from him after he disappointed her in not ever seeking her out after their last parting. “Don’t you dare say anything other than lovely or beautiful or stunning.”

“Those are my choices?”

“Yes.

“Well then, all of those things. But why the threat?”

“Oh, Viserys. My brother. Something he said. It doesn’t matter,” she says, running her hand along the length of her skirt until her fingertips reach the hem, smiling at the way his eyes track her movements.

“That brother of yours is something of a problem,” he observes.

Of course Jorah would know. It can’t be a secret around her uncle’s offices just how badly Viserys manages his finances or how often he sends his sister in to beg for an advance. At first she wasn’t planning on helping her brother, but she’s ready to do it again based on that look in his eyes right before their uncle interrupted them.

“You know how brothers are,” she says, lightly touching the edge of his jacket sleeve.

“No, I don’t.”

“Well, they’re always a hassle. He’s in a bit of a fix apparently. I might have to drop by on Monday to have a chat with my uncle. Fall on his mercy for Viserys’ sake. Or maybe you can help me with it?”

She runs her finger around the gold button at the cuff, and he wets his lips, shifting his weight over his feet restlessly. She certainly has his attention.

“Maybe.”

“Viserys has some debts he needs to pay, and I spent my monthly allowance, the past few months’ allowance actually, on hosting this event. Completely worth it, because it’s a really excellent cause.” She waits for him to chime in with his agreement, but he merely sticks his hands in his pockets, disrupting the seduction of his jacket. “But it means I can’t help him, and he needs an advance.”

“Have you ever thought of just letting him fend for himself?”

“He’s my brother.”

“So, what do you need from me?”

“You might say something to my uncle.”

It’s a simple task, but not an entirely pleasant one. She knows her uncle will respond poorly to whoever speaks on Viserys’ behalf. Jorah probably expects as much, and no one likes to irritate their boss, but she’d like to test if he’s as loyal as his house motto would claim.

“He’s more liable to say yes to you than he is me.”

Dany pouts. “You might be right. But you’ll try, won’t you? He might appreciate an analyst’s point of view. You know my uncle is almost as fond of analysts as I am,” she teases.

He looks as if he’s going to concede, his eyes softening and little lines showing up at their corners, as he opens his mouth to speak, but he doesn’t get a chance. Something hot and wet—a mouth—fits against her neck and she jumps, looking up into blue eyes just a few shades off from the blue of his hair, slicked back against his head with some product that makes it darker than normal.

“Daario. You came.”

He’s in a t-shirt and jeans and smells like cigarette smoke, but it doesn’t matter.

“Told you I probably would,” he says, wrapping an arm around her lower back and pulling her hip into him, as he presses another kiss to her temple.

His fingers tug at the fabric of her dress, making it inch up dangerously high, and she wiggles in his grip, cooing his name in mock outrage. Her heart gives a little skip at the intimacy of it all, how familiar and possessive he’s acting. It’s only been two dates, but maybe this one will stick and she won’t lie awake thinking about Drogo anymore.

A hand extends, almost directly between the decreasing space between herself and Daario, interrupting. “Jorah Mormont.”

Daario is a little slow to offer his hand back and says nothing in response, but then, he probably expects that Jorah knows him. He’s something of a sensation on the New York music and social scene, appearing in blogs of both types thanks in no small part to Daario’s good looks. The paps probably took as many photos of him in front of the Step and Repeat as they did her, which isn’t such a terrible thing for the visibility of her charity.

“Jorah is an analyst at Barristan & Rakharo.” Daario grunts. “Barristan is my uncle,” she reminds him. “And this is Daario Naharis of Stormcrows.”

“Who or what is Stormcrows?” Jorah asks flatly.

“A band,” Dany says without elaborating.

There’d be no point. It’s the kind of band Jorah wouldn’t have heard of and even Dany finds their music—loud and fast and angry—a little bewildering, despite being closer to their target age group. She isn’t much into music herself, but one of their two dates was at a dingy club, where his band was playing, and she did her best to imitate the rest of the thrashing, sweaty crowd. Maybe she shouldn’t count it as a proper date: he barely spoke to her and seemed distracted when she came backstage. But it wasn’t an entire waste. She invited him to tonight’s event while she was there and he did look sexy up on stage in his leather pants with the strobe lights catching on the piercing in his eyebrow and the cords in his arms standing out underneath his tattoos. They’re hard to miss. Dany can tell Jorah’s staring at the one of the naked woman done in the pinup style. What Jorah can’t see is that he has two, one on each forearm. Daario introduced them to her as ‘the twins.’

“How long do we need to stick around at this thing, babe?” Daario asks, nuzzling his slightly hooked nose into her braids.

The use of ‘we’ makes Dany laugh with nervous excitement even as she turns into him and tries to explain that she can’t leave.

“I’m the hostess. I have to thank half the people who are here tonight and the other half I need to convince to give me money. It’s kind of my job. You understand, right?”

“Yeah, you know, I just thought we could get out of here,” he says, tracing the rim of her ear with his finger. “Show me that place of yours.”

The idea is more tempting than it should be, given how much effort she’s put into this event and how much she believes in her foundation. Or how much she believed in it until Tyrion Lannister spilled poison into her ear. But Daario could probably make her forget all of tonight’s disappointments. He looks like he’d know what to do with a girl to help her forget.

“How about you give me an hour? I can make the rounds in an hour and get us out of here before it’s too late.”

She smoothes her hands over his chest and looks up through her lashes at him, but she can tell by the way he gazes over her head that he’s not listening to her, distracted by something and looking distinctly bored. Admittedly, it isn’t his scene, but she really has worked hard and the thought that she was ready to hurry away just to please him makes her more than a little frustrated with herself. _Hormones_.

She frowns and pulls her hands back, turning to address Jorah, who can’t ever seem to take his eyes off of her—unlike the fickle attention of a musician at the height of his popularity—but he’s gone. Somewhere during her bargaining session with Daario, he disappeared. She looks to the left and the right, and spots him, his arms crossed over his chest, pulling tightly against his suit coat, and his brows knit together. The crowd shifts and through the temporary gap she sees him. Tyrion Lannister. Jorah is deeply engrossed in conversation with the one man in this room she doesn’t want anyone pleasantly chatting with, and she told Jorah he was hateful, she asked him to serve his head up on a platter.

Disloyal bear.

Her hand finds Daario’s and tugs. “You wanna get out of here?”

He smiles down at her, the rise of his lip somehow deliciously wicked. “Your place?”

“Absolutely.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion's chapter is up next, where we'll head back to Lannister Mercantile and indulge in a little Cersei and Tyrion sparring.
> 
> Then Ned, Cersei, Sansa, and Cat.


	12. Tyrion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cersei makes a visit to Lannister Mercantile and for once it isn't to see Jaime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Cersei. I love her most at her ragey worst. Tyrion does not...

Chapter Eleven: Tyrion

Fingers poised over the keyboard, Tyrion pauses in his quick patter typing to look up from his computer, when he hears Penny’s voice, high and plaintive.He turns his head, trying to hear better what it is that’s causing the stir, but it’s the scramble outside of his door that makes him call out her name. The door flies open, reverberating against the wall of his office with a thud, and Cersei stands alongside his executive assistant. Next to Penny, she’s imposingly tall in her high gloss black heels and all business with her hair slicked back in a twist, white blouse buttoned higher than the norm, layers of gold necklaces hanging heavily about her swanlike neck, and black pencil skirt that skims her calves. Only her cherry red lips, matte and full, spoil the effect of a woman bent on business and make him wonder whether Jaime will smear that red across her golden skin. She’ll scold him if he does.

Penny wrings her hands, her face contorted in obvious distress. “I’m sorry, Mr. Lannister. I told Mrs. Baratheon she needed to set up an appointment.”

Cersei scowls at the name—Mrs. Baratheon. She never changed her name from Lannister. Tyrion imagines she couldn’t stand to be parted from the name that originally brought her within reach of the power she craved. What she claimed was that she kept Lannister because she wanted to have the same name as her children, but once she gave birth to chubby little Tommen, he suspects her name became something of a thorny issue between Cersei and her husband, because shouldn’t having the same name as Tommen be equally important to her? Of course, it’s not. Nothing is as important to her as Joff, the perfect green eyed prince of Manhatten. Certainly marital accord fails to be on par with the happiness of her son. But then, her iciness and Robert’s propensity to find himself out on the town with women who are not his wife do nothing to conceal the lack of a happy home life.

Tyrion takes off his readers, deliberate in his slow folding of the plastic arms, in no rush to give his former sister in law his attention. “That’s all right, Penny. Cersei’s probably just lost. Point her in the direction of my brother’s office.”

Penny steps back, raising her hand to gesture down the hallway, dutifully following his directions to the tee, but Cersei ignores his executive assistant and stares at him with her perfectly groomed, blond brows arched in disdain. “I have no problem finding Jaime’s office. It’s this little tucked away broom closet of yours that’s something of a challenge.”

It’s not quite a supply closet, but it might as well be one compared to his father’s or Jaime’s office with their bank of windows overlooking million dollar vistas. Tyrion’s office is lit by harsh, artificial lights that buzz. It’s a box. An expensive box with a very expensive address, but a box nonetheless.

“We hide the monsters away here at Lannister Mercantile as best we can. If there was a basement, I’m sure I’d be stowed away down there,” he says, waving her in. “Shut the door, Penny.”

The door shuts much more softly than it opened, Penny’s round eyed face slowly disappearing behind it, and they are left alone. Cersei makes no move to sit in the stiff backed chair opposite Tyrion’s desk, standing defiantly with her nose raised and her mouth pursed, clearly looking for a formal invitation. She thinks herself a queen visiting the peasants.

“Have a seat, sis. Can I offer you something to drink?” he says, jerking his thumb towards the small bar built into the wall behind his desk. It’s the only truly luxe part of his office with its shiny, dark red, burled amboyna panels and inlaid gold. The only thing he personally saw to install as well, but then, he takes pleasure very seriously. Tyrion considers pleasure a necessity, not a luxury, and drinking is one of life’s real pleasures.

“It’s ten in the morning.”

“I wouldn’t think that would stop you. It won’t stop me.”

She rolls her eyes, but doesn’t protest, as he slips from his chair and takes two steps towards the bar. It’s built to be low enough that he doesn’t have to stand on a step stool to pour a drink for his clients, drawing further attention to the thing that makes him different from the rest of his genetically gifted family. Nothing except this bar he designed is made to his height specifications in the Lannister offices, but the world isn’t built to accommodate all Lannisters. Only some of them.

“So what brings you to my lair?” he asks, reaching for the amber filled bottle of Glenfiddich.

There are already two glasses lined up and no need for ice. Just a three finger pour and they’ll be set. With whiskey this good, he enjoys it neat. Cersei prefers wine, but he isn’t about to bend to her wishes. Besides, they’ll both need strong spirits to help them tolerate each other.

“I need to discuss the new Baratheon project. You know the one.”

He does. Since last night, he’s been intimately familiar with it thanks to something Jaime mentioned offhandedly to him on the phone yesterday. Jaime’s call awakened him from a somewhat restless, dry mouthed sleep, having indulged a hair too much at Dany Targaryen’s charity event at Meereen, but it was nothing a satisfying round in the Egyptian cotton sheets with Shae and a strong pot of coffee couldn’t fix. Revived, he set about doing his research in case his opinion was begrudgingly sought by his father on the possibility of sinking the company even further into bed with Baratheon Industries. He didn’t like what he discovered, but he’ll play dumb for the moment if for no other reason than to get her to request his help. A little begging would be nice too.

“You want to discuss it with me?”

He didn’t have to turn to know she was annoyed, he could hear it in her voice. “Yes with you. We could use some financial support. Congress will be voting soon.”

“I have to say, you must be pretty desperate to come to me with something like this,” he says, carrying the two glasses back to his desk.

She snatches the one in his left hand from him, nearly sloshing the whiskey over the rim as she smirks at him in a nasty imitation of a smile.

“I already spoke with Jaime.”

Tyrion takes his seat and leans back with a heavy sigh. “Of course you did, and I’m sure you were very persuasive. So why darken my door?”

“I’d rather not, but he suggested you held the purse strings.”

Tyrion swirls the whiskey in his glass enjoying the bouquet before he sips. “How good of him to notice.”

Sometimes he wonders whether his father or his brother recognize just how much he does for this company or whether he’ll ever be properly rewarded for it. There’s certainly no chance of it once Joffrey takes over. The little shit.

“The technology is solid. We just need firm financial backing, so Congress is more likely to see it as a viable contract.”

“The technology is solid,” Tyrion repeats. He sucks air noisily through his teeth. “It would be nice if that were true, but I’m not so sure about that. You see, I thought perhaps we might be asked to back your husband on this like we were asked to back the last project and the one before that _and_ the one before that too. You almost can’t pick your own noses over there without our assistance.”

“Get to the point,” she says, wrinkling her nose.

“I took it upon myself to do a little research into this new technology of yours. I’m not sure I’d call it solid exactly.”

“What would you call it then?”

“Irresponsible. Dangerous. Poorly conceived.”

Cersei stares back at him, unblinking, as if she is ready for this criticism and has her pert response all planned out for him. “What has been reported publicly is limited. You don’t have the full picture.”

“I assume you brought classified documents with you then, so I can make a more informed decision.”

Perched in her lap is nothing but a shiny red clutch with a large gilded clasp shaped like a fortified tower. Tyrion doesn’t know a great deal about women’s purses except to know that Shae's cost him a fortune, but it doesn’t look like this one would hold much save for maybe a cell phone and lipstick. Maybe a pack of condoms. After all, he’s not sure who’s responsible for such things between his brother and Cersei, although it’s been obvious to him since Tommen was born that someone is occasionally as lax about birth control as they were when they were teenagers and Joffrey was conceived. Tyrion considers Joffrey the very worst kind of mistake, but even as a kid Tyrion thought Cersei knew what she was doing, when she announced she was knocked up. Some accidents aren't accidents at all.

“I can’t allow you access to something like that. But I’m sure if you have questions, I can get them answered.”

He grins at her, because _she_ probably doesn’t have access to high security clearance documents. Robert Baratheon doesn’t strike Tyrion as the kind of man who would allow his wife to get her hands on any aspect of his family business. At least not with the wife he’s got. Since it’s Cersei, Tyrion can’t blame the guy.

“Does the Senator have access to the necessary documents?”

“Yes.”

He can tell from the way her head bobbles slightly and the toe of her heel bounces up and down that she’s infuriated that Robert’s college buddy, Ned Stark, knows things that she doesn’t, but then, Senator Stark would have to have access to the research if he’s to push for the government contract. In the order of things that makes him more important than Robert’s wife. Tyrion wonders just how far down Cersei ranks in Robert’s life.

“Does the information he was given demonstrate how dangerous this project really is? How unpredictable the target range is? How easy it would be to end up killing the wrong people? Civilians?”

Cersei’s mouth flattens, the muscles at the corners threatening to twitch. “Those results are from older trials.”

He inclines his head, fighting a smile, because this shouldn’t be so much fun. “Then you admit it?”

“There have been more trials.”

“The whole thing has been rushed, Cersei. You have to know that.” Cersei isn’t stupid. Hopefully Ned Stark isn’t either. Hopefully he won’t be blinded by his friendship with Robert, hopefully he sees how poorly executed the development of this new weapon has been. Otherwise the American people and people abroad could be headed into a shit ton of trouble. “Do you really want Lannister Mercantile, the company your son stands to inherit, to back such a project? To mire itself in irresponsible spending and a potential public relations nightmare? Your son’s name comingled with a company that makes a weapon that kills innocents. Think about it.”

Cersei taps her manicured nails against the arm of her chair. “You’re spreading it a little thick. Don’t you think? Playing the concerned uncle? When you smashed my son’s phone with the heel of your shoe the last time you saw him.”

“They say they’re the disposable generation.”

“It wasn’t your place to destroy his property in some insane gesture at disciplining him.”

“Someone needs to discipline him.” It’s a fucking shame Joffrey has grown beyond his reach, or he would have slapped him across the face. Tyrion swigs from the glass and grimaces at the burn in his throat. “Your son needs a lesson in empathy among other things. Texting at his girlfriend’s brother’s funeral was hardly appropriate.”

Cersei waves away his comment with a flick of her wrist. “Bosses don’t need empathy. It would only be a liability.” She would think that. “I know you dread his coming to work here.”

“With good reason.” Every employee at this company better start looking for another job before Joffrey has his name on a brass plate at Lannister Mercantile. Lately Tyrion seriously has considered his future here too. He thought about it all weekend after his little chat with Jorah Mormont at Ms. Targaryen’s party. It was a good reminder that there are other companies in the world. Other businesses he could run. Other financial houses he could lend his skill to, where he might be better appreciated. The idea of leaving his family’s company feels a bit like admitting defeat though, when he’s always hoped he could prove himself and be granted real power as a reward. He hasn't given up yet. “I’d rather not see our company end up floundering like your husband’s. It’s Tommen’s inheritance you should be concerned about.”

She lifts the glass to her lips and drains half of it in one long swallow, nostrils flaring. When she rests the glass back on her thigh, he can see the faint imprint in red on the rim, a perfect reproduction of the lines of her mouth on clear crystal.

“Who told you Robert’s company is floundering?”

“Just a guess.” There have been lots of little signs, nothing blatant, but when they’re added up, they make him wonder how long before the other investors get scared and start asking questions and demanding answers.

“Did you read it on the blogs? Are people talking?”

Her skin flushes, red creeping up her neck and into her cheeks, and he’s not sure if it is from the drink or agitation over Baratheon’s financial difficulties.

Tyrion shifts in the chair, propping an elbow on the arm. “Just how much trouble is Baratheon Industries in, sis?” She stares blankly into her glass, and he presses, “Why come to us again? Can’t the family reserves be called upon to fund this project? Or is it the Baratheon fortune that’s in real danger?”

She moves the glass slowly back and forth, rocking it over the top of her thigh. “Something that doesn’t exist can’t truly be in jeopardy.”

“Ah.” Worse than he thought, but then, Robert spends on grand houses, cars, boats, vacations, and women as if the well will never run dry. It’s an unfortunate truth that out of the whole bunch the women might be the most expensive personal expenditure. Tyrion knows how expensive just having the one girlfriend is, and Robert has quite a few more than that if they should even properly be called girlfriends. “Well, I’m sorry, Cersei, but I can’t do it. It wouldn’t be good for the company. Wouldn’t be good for the family. I can’t recommend to my father that we back Robert on this. Not this time.”

She sets her glass down on his desk, her legs uncrossing as she leans towards him, her teeth bared like a lioness. “You can and you will. Lannister Merc will benefit. We’re going to win this contract and money will be flooding in.”

“It sounds like you better hope that’s the case, but it’s too risky a venture for us to take part.”

“That’s what business is. It’s a gamble. You take the big chances and sometimes you win and sometimes you lose. But you take the chance. Otherwise there’s no point in showing up to the table if you’re not willing to risk it all.”

His former sister in law thinks that those who practice caution are cowards, and it has always been her greed that drove her to make the quick move. Greed for power and love made her chase his brother, when they were just teenagers. It made her sink her claws into Robert, when Jaime didn’t pan out the way she’d hoped, and if Robert’s empire crumbles, she’ll look for it elsewhere, leaving him as quick as rats abandon a sinking ship.

“Thank you for your lectures on business, but I’m sure I don’t need them. I’m fairly sure you’ve never had a real job.”

“I’m a _mother_. But you wouldn’t know about that, would you.”

Insufferable bitch. “That’s low even for you.”

“Well, when you wallow with pigs.” She huffs, sitting up ramrod straight. “When your father finds out you refused an opportunity to bring in this kind of a windfall, he’ll laugh in your face. We all will. It will prove to him that it’s a damn good thing Jaime was born first.”

“Sweetheart, I’m used to being laughed at. You might start getting accustomed to it though. The court of public opinion will have a field day if your family goes up in flames.”

“You’re vile, you know that? You’re so damn selfish.” He wants to say that it takes one to know one, but he merely arches a brow at her over the rim of his glass and finishes the rest of his whiskey. “You never could handle that I took your brother away from you, and now you refuse to help your own flesh and blood.”

“By which you mean Tommen?”

“Shut up,” she says, standing up, fingertips pressed into the gleaming, buffed surface of his desk. “Those kinds of jokes aren’t just in bad taste. They’re dangerous.” She points her finger at him, just begging to be bitten off. “I promise you, Tyrion, you’ll be sorry if you don’t speak in glowing terms to your father about this project.”

“Is that right? That sounds like a threat.”

“That's because it is one.”

“What is it you plan to do? Stab me with one of your damn heels?”

She draws back her hand, smoothes a wisp of her hair into place, and smiles, a glimmer of white peeking out through her stained lips. “Oh, no. Satisfying as that would be, it wouldn’t hurt nearly enough.”

“I don’t know. You wear awfully high heels.”

“Honey, if you cross me on this, I’ll take whatever it is you love. I’ll take it from you and then you’ll know what pain is. Trust me.”

He doesn’t get a chance to respond and for once he has nothing witty primed to say anyway, temporarily feeling gutted by her threat, as she stomps to the door, flings it open hard enough that he wouldn’t be surprised if the frame in the hallway crashes to the floor, and disappears in a clomping echo of heels on waxed hardwood. They sound menacing enough, but it’s the prospect that maybe she’s right that a heel to the heart would hurt less than whatever she has planned that sends a chill up his spine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're hosting a Halloween themed fanworks challenge for GoT and ASOIAF ships on [gameofshipschallenges](http://gameofshipschallenges.tumblr.com) and the prompts will be revealed Thursday @ midnight EST. I'm planning a little A City entry for at least one of the days. I hope you all will join us for the fun by participating or supporting the fanwork creators.
> 
> As usual, you can follow [me](http://justadram.tumblr.com) for sneak peeks, and follow the characters too! [Sansa](http://makepinklemonade.tumblr.com), [Jon](http://theghostofjonsnow.tumblr.com), [Margaery](http://ahighgardenrose.tumblr.com), and [Dany](http://princessofapalacecracked.tumblr.com).


	13. Ned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to the grind of Washington, Ned must decide whether to throw his weight behind the Baratheon bid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AU in which there was never a government shut down and this is an election year.

Chapter Twelve: Ned

Ned returned to Washington victorious but painfully drained. Enough that he requires more than just the usual one cup of black coffee to keep to his regular early hours. He’ll have to page his secretary for another shortly, he fears, for his eyes are feeling as if they’re weighed down by little silver fishing line weights, as he stares at the thick package before him, trying to make heads or tails of it without the words going watery before his gaze.

Campaigns have always been a nightmare for him. Talking about himself seems like a monumental waste of time and he’s not very good at it. He’d rather be in the trenches, fighting for the American people on the floor of the Senate, but to have that privilege, he has to go through the unfortunate trivialities of campaigning time and time again. This campaign cycle was particularly agonizing with the loss of Robb hanging like a specter over almost every step. As if he could forget, reporters and mostly kind hearted people seemed doggedly determined to remind him of his gaping loss at every chance. Around every corner was another question that stirred the ache in his chest. How was the family doing? The kids? Mrs. Stark? The other boy of his, who served too? How were they managing to carry on? What Ned wanted to say was sometimes they weren’t managing well at all, but that wasn’t what people wanted to hear, so he generally frowned and cleared his throat and looked as uncomfortable as he felt and that seemed to say as much as words could.

Cat was at his side through much of it, fielding questions more expertly than he could ever hope to even after all these years and giving more than one stunning speech. He doesn’t know of a man that is luckier than he is when it comes to spouses. He simply couldn’t have done it without her, and despite the fact that she was there almost every step of the way, holding him up in spite of her own grief, he came close on a couple of occasions to pulling out of the race. He had his finger on the trigger, his aid Luwin dutifully standing by, ready to call the speechwriter to craft a withdrawal speech. Not because Ned feared losing—his numbers always showed him well ahead of his opponent and while his advisors wouldn’t say it to his face, the media had no trouble bluntly pointing out that with a son lately killed in action, the voters of New York were unlikely to vote against the sitting, senior senator. It wasn’t the fear of a loss, he was becoming an expert at loss, and if by some unexpected twist he lost, a defeat would have been no more than a ripple after the tidal wave that had nearly toppled them all. He simply didn’t feel like he had it in him to keep going. But the party would have been furious if he’d left them in the lurch so late in the game and there was Cat, her hand on his tensed shoulder, assuring him that the people needed him, that he had to do what he could to help, and so he’d stumbled through it as best he could.

Campaigning by necessity is a family activity. It’s not enough to have a supportive wife beside you at the podium. The American Dream traditionally is built on the premise of the nuclear family. Husband, wife, two point five kids, and a dog with a roof over their head and a white picket fence outside surrounding the perfect lawn. The Stark ticket has for much of its conception boasted more than just the requisite two point five. Ned refuses to speak of himself or his family as a brand the way his campaign staff does, but he couldn’t suddenly appear on campaign without the other moving parts. The voters like the appearance of a close knit family stalwartly standing behind their elected officials, so the Stark children have always lined up on stage from oldest to youngest in their Sunday best and smiled for the crowds and the flashing cameras.

Grieving or not, they all helped this time too, as much as they were able, attending functions, stuffing envelopes alongside volunteers, posing for family portraits, and giving reporters some printable sound bite. Bran drew an illustration for the campaign website that people claimed to love, and Arya made some suggestions for music he could play at rallies that wouldn’t entirely embarrass her. She did a good job of it: most of it didn’t embarrass him either. Best of all, Rickon didn’t cause too much damage, when asked nicely to please sit still.

The younger children were in school and still seeing the counselor Cat found to help them deal with the grief of the loss of their brother, so they missed out on most of the campaigning traveling this time around, but Sansa and Jon came on one of the longer road trips through New York. In between the shaking of hands and awkward speech making, having them along gave him a chance to observe his two eldest, who suddenly seemed inseparable, sitting side by side in the touring bus, heads canted in towards each other. Cat thought they both were doing better, said so in his nightly check up calls to the house, when she told him all the details of the day, and it appeared she was right.

Except for the fact that Jon has never been comfortable in the spotlight and spent a fair amount of time slumped against walls, pulling at his tie, threatening to disappear into the woodwork, that empty look in his eyes isn’t there when Sansa whispers to him during donor dinners, bumping him with her elbow when he refuses to smile. He needs someone like Sansa. Someone naturally light hearted and gentle. They may have had little use for each other in the past, but Ned can see where her presence would be soothing for Jon in his current condition.

But it’s not just what Sansa seems to do for Jon’s mood; this is no one sided scenario. Sansa does a better job of pretending she is all right than the rest of them, but her refusal to eat was one outward sign of her grief that she couldn’t wholly conceal. For most of the summer it was an ongoing, visible issue, but she looked healthier than she'd been in months, when they started the trip, and it didn’t take long for Ned to see why. At meals there was less cutting up and moving around of food and more actual eating. And when she seemed to get lost in her head at a meal, Jon was the one passing her another roll or asking her to try something off his plate. Sometimes Ned forgets with Jon living in their basement that he’s a grown man, but observing Jon’s quiet watchfulness and unobtrusive devotion reminds him that he’ll make some girl a fine husband someday. Perhaps not in the too distant future.

Since Ned can’t be around every day to observe these interactions between his children, it did feel as if overnight Sansa and Jon developed a closeness that wasn’t there before. Cat reports back on the comings and goings of the family daily, reports now that he reflects on it included more instances of the two of them being together than he could previously recall. It’s a little unlikely in terms of a friendship, one he would have never predicted developing between his children at this stage of the game. They don’t share any interests that Ned’s aware of, but that doesn’t keep them from talking. Maybe talking just a hair too much. Cat frowned at them a few times, when she thought they were being rather too obvious in their whispering, during someone’s speech. But if it’s a comfort to them to spend their evenings watching movies and ordering a bizarre amount of room service, he’s happy to see it and foot the bill.

It didn’t matter how many of their children were around, helping out with the campaign and completing the family picture. For Ned, Robb’s absence was like a missing peg in a dam, slowing allowing all the lake water to spill out and leave nothing behind but flopping, dying fish. It sours everything, including what should be the happiest of moments. The victory party after Ned made his speech to those gathered in their suits and shiny campaign buttons and smiling up at him might have been the worst moment of the whole campaign, and that’s certainly not how a victory party is supposed to make you feel, but ever since he got into politics, ever since his first win, there has been the photo of him and Cat and Robb at the victory party. Before Sansa was ever born, it was the three of them, and his eldest boy has always been there, until this year.

He wasn’t the only one that felt Robb’s absence that night. Sleeping alongside a thrashing Cat, he knew the victory didn’t mean what it usually did to her this time around, and Sansa came to his office the next morning, as he was gathering his things to head back to Washington with bluish circles under her eyes, as if she hadn’t slept much better. Standing in a fluffy white robe she kept tugging tighter around herself, bare feet curling over the carpet, she apologized more than once for _not doing something_ until he put everything down, pulled her in for a kiss on her forehead, and insisted that she was doing exactly what she needed to be doing. Spring semester is still a couple of months away, and they’ll all sit down and talk about it, when she feels up to it, but until then, she’s helping her mother and being a good girl and that’s all he could ask of her.

He’s doing what he needs to as well. The voters reelected him, so he’s back at work, despite feeling like he’s a severed limb. He’d much rather have slept in beside Cat than awoken before dawn in the loneliness of his Washington apartments, but he can’t remember the last time they had the luxury to do that between work and the kids, and she’d sent him off to the airport with a whispered, _Make me proud_ , so that’s what he intends on doing.

Which means he needs to read over this packet from Baratheon Industries on the technology Robert is hoping will fetch the company a new government contract. He feels an odd sort of pull in his gut, when reading over the packet, torn between his loyalties to his friend and what he knows is right. The fact of the matter is, Ned suspects Robert needs this contract to help prop up the company. In recent years, Robert hasn’t made the most responsible decisions in his private life, and it’s begun to spill over into his public life as well, dragging the company and its profits slowly downward. While Ned would like to help a friend in trouble out by supporting the bid, he can’t afford to make irresponsible decisions. Which is why he’s spent the morning staring at the documents, hand wrapped around a hot mug, reading through the reports and taking notes by hand in the way he’s most comfortable despite the computer humming before him and a bevy of other smaller electronics within easy reach.

Senator Varys, chairmen of the Committee of Armed Services, wants to take a look at these documents too. The senator can be coy, but he’s made no secret of how eager he is to get his hands on the packet. Ned doesn’t always know what to make of Varys, but in this case his opinion will be most welcome. Because something just feels off, as if the report is missing pages or something is being concealed through jargon and conflicting evidence. It could be paranoia—he hopes it is, because Robert is a good friend, his oldest fried, and he wants to believe the best of him. Although, Cat’s most recent comment on Robert’s behavior keeps coming to mind. _You_ were _his best friend. The man he’s become you might not truly know._ He needs another opinion.

Senator Varys’ isn’t the only opinion Ned intends to seek out. There’s a phone call he needs to return on the subject of this new technology, one he’s put off for too long, simply because the Lannisters aren’t his favorite people and dealing with the last few days of the campaign has been all he could manage without adding in the potentially snide commentary of Tyrion Lannister. But the man left a message with his secretary, requesting that Ned call him back so they might discuss the Baratheon proposal well over two weeks ago, and it’s high time he did.

It takes a moment of searching and then manually scrolling through his Blackberry’s contacts to realize he doesn’t have the number saved. Pressing the intercom button, he requests that Tyrion Lannister be dialed and transferred over to his line. He’s sipping the last of his coffee, when it rings through, and sitting the mug down on the mahogany desk, he lifts the receiver to his ear, as he straightens his shoulders in the chair.

“Mr. Lannister. Good morning.”

“Senator. You’re lucky I’m in the office this bright and early.”

The man’s voice sounds rough and he clears it twice, while Ned glances at the softly ticking clock sitting on the shelf next to his desk. It once sat in his father's office, and though it shows its age in some regards, it keeps perfect time. No more than fifteen minutes past eight, normal working hours by any person’s account, and Ned’s been in the office for well over an hour already.

“I’m sorry. Is this a bad time?”

“Not at all. I’ve been awaiting your call.”

“Yes. You’ll excuse my delay in getting back to you, I hope.”

“How could I not? I take it you’ve been busy. Shaking babies and kissing hands.” It’s just that kind of feeble flippancy that Ned dreads from the younger Lannister brother, and he tips his mug, staring into its navy depths, wishing it would magically refill itself, so he might at least have the comfort of caffeine to help him get through this call. “Well worth the effort apparently, considering congratulations are in order.”

There were sizable contributions made by certain Lannisters to his campaign not for the first time, but Ned knows well enough that he can’t actually count on them to support him in a pinch. It merely suited their interests at this point in time for him to win. Should he refuse to back the new Baratheon project, however, the well of Lannister funds will no doubt run dry.

“Thank you, sir. I believe you called about the Baratheon project?”

“Right to the point then. Won’t even let me ask after that beautiful family of yours?” Ned sighs, scrubbing his face with his free hand. Frowning over the phone won’t exactly convey how little he wants to talk about the shared grief in his family. But he’s spared coming up with an appropriate spoken response, when Tyrion continues, his voice unexpectedly softened, “Have it your way, although I do wish you all the best. But, yes, I did call about the new tech they’re fiddling with over there in Jersey.”

Ned swallows, directing his mind back to the task, temporarily derailed by thoughts of Rickon’s arms wrapped tight around his neck, refusing to let go, when he tucked the boys into bed the last night before he left. Rickon doesn't ever mention his brother, but sometimes he says his father's never coming back, while Ned's in Washington. Knowing that only makes going away that much harder.

“You know something about it, then?”

“Not as much as I’d like, considering Cersei Lannister came to us asking for financial backing. Quite a lot of money to pay out with very little information to explain why exactly we should.”

“Ah.” He was expecting Tyrion to take a more positive tack in introducing the project, but it’s an odd relationship between the Lannister and Baratheon families, considering that the divorce and remarriage of Cersei Lannister seems to have done very little to disrupt the status quo. That’s not something he’d ever point out to Robert though. Not all marriages are like what he and Cat share, and whatever the nature of the relationship between Cersei and Robert, it is their business and not his. “I was actually hoping you might have some insight you’d want to share with me.”

There’s a rustle, a clinking in the background, which Ned can’t make out the source of before Tyrion says, “Well, I do at that. I’m never afraid to speak my mind, you know, even if it would be better for everyone if I didn’t.”

“You’d make a terrible politician.” Ned is sometimes afflicted with this problem—inability to just shut up and mind his own business—although not for the love of hearing himself pontificate, but due to the need to speak out against those things he knows to be wrong. It’s gotten him in trouble with his party more than once.

“Honesty doesn’t go over so well in Washington either, but there you sit. I might just be president yet. Stranger things have happened.”

Ned can’t help but chuckle at that. Being president requires incredibly early hours. Late nights too, although Tyion would probably have less trouble with that. “Go ahead then, sir.”

“I was told you were given a more complete packet than the one I received about the project. So perhaps you have more insight than I can offer.” Not as complete as Ned would like, but there’s a thick stack of papers here if somewhat lacking in content. “But I did a little digging around as best I could, looking into the research, and I think I saw enough data to make the right decision for Lannister Merc.”

“Are you funding the project?”

“No, and I’ll tell you what I told Cersei: to support this technology at this stage in development would be irresponsible and possibly dangerous.”

Ned shifts in his chair. Tyrion for once sounds devastatingly serious, his words clipped and low. Whatever familial animosity he might harbor towards Cersei, from what Ned understands, Tyrion is good at what he does, fills an important if unsung role at his family's business, and he presumably wouldn’t refuse a chance to make the family money, unless he judged the project to be more of a risk than an opportunity. Still, as he said, whatever it is Cersei gave him access to, it wasn’t the whole picture.

“You’re basing this assessment off of incomplete information.”

“I am, but from what I’ve seen in the early tests, I’m not remotely comfortable with the prospect of having the Lannister name associated in any way with the tech.” There are a range of tests and resulting information presented in Ned’s packet, but something about the data seems incomplete, either because the technology has not been properly tested and isn’t ready for the field of battle or because whatever data is available has been suppressed. Either way, it doesn’t make him comfortable either. “An unpredictable target range is no small kink best left to be worked out in the final stages of testing after a contract is secured. This weaponry has the potential of killing the wrong people, and I don’t think you’d like to have your name attached to that kind of blow up either. Excuse my phraseology.”

It’s not just his name on the line. His honor is important to him, but it’s the safety of civilians and US soldiers that would keep him up at night. That’s what truly matters. Willingly and without much reservation, he’s trusted Robert before, trusted Baratheon Industries, trusted them with his good name, when he supported their government bids.

He picks up his discarded pen, tapping the top page of notes he’s jotted down with the closed end. “Baratheon Industries has produced reliable tech for our government.” The same sentence is there at the bottom of the page, but even as Ned says it, it rings hollow. The past doesn’t matter. Everyone is judged based on current circumstances, not past accomplishments. Just as Robert seems increasingly unreliable, so too might be the weapons he’s producing. If even one young girl was killed, because of faulty technology he backed, could he live with that? Accidents happen, but if the tech is bad and he knew it, it wouldn't really be an accident.

“I’m sure they have. That company and the government contracts it’s secured has made Robert a very wealthy man, who can make all sorts of bad choices. I’m telling you, Senator, this would be a bad choice. This technology is one giant clusterfuck, intended to support more of his bad habits. The whole thing has been rushed. That’s my opinion, and I’d urge you to look very carefully at any information they’ve given you.”

Dropping the pen, Ned reaches up to pinch the bridge of his nose, where a headache seems to be forming caused by tension, exhaustion, and increasingly grave disappointment, as he ponders the possibility of turning down his friend.

“Well, I appreciate your advice, sir. I’m going to take it into consideration.”

“Do. Keep me in mind for some choice Washington job as well. I’m always looking for something better, you know.” There might be some truth in that, although he says it flippantly enough. “And don’t worry, I’ll keep our little phone call between us. I’m sure Robert wouldn’t like to know about it.”

Probably not. Anymore than Robert likes the phone call he receives from Ned two days later, which begins with _Robert, I’m very sorry…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s been my intention to write additional moments in this universe that don’t fit in with the planned structure as part of a series of one-shots. The first of these that I’ve written takes place prior to this chapter and is a Jon POV, featuring Sansa and Arya, called [Economy Candy](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1024189). If there are other moments mentioned on the characters’ blogs or things you’d like to see addressed that haven’t been, leave me a comment below or send me an [ask](http://justadram.tumblr.com/ask) and they might end up as a one-shot in the series.
> 
> Cersei's up next!


	14. Cersei

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cersei needs Jaime's assurances after word of the Baratheon contract not moving forward reaches her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Mention of physical, spousal abuse; canon compliant.
> 
> Oh, and sexually graphic. But it's a Lannister chapter. What were you expecting?
> 
> I posted inspiration pictures for the Baratheon house [here](http://justadram.tumblr.com/post/67096087026/a-brand-new-a-city-location-the-baratheon-home), which you might want to check out before/after reading this chapter. If you'd like to keep up with inspiration pics, sneak peeks of chapters, and get your A City questions answered, you can always follow me on tumblr at [justadram](http://justadram.tumblr.com/).

Chapter Thirteen: Cersei

“You’re late,” Cersei says, the chunky heel of her grey suede ankle booties clopping on the long, curving stamped concrete drive that snakes before her home. Not just a little late, two hours late, which means they have less time than she planned, when she called Jaime’s cell phone and left a brief message, _Come. I need you_. “And I told you to pull around the back.”

“It’s one in the afternoon _._ In _New Jersey_. Who’s going to see my car at this time of day?” Jaime asks, one long leg emerging from his shiny black sports car.

He looks impeccably groomed. Italian leather shoes, perfectly tailored Savile Row suit, crisp shirt and narrow tie with hair brushed back, worn longer on top like men ten years younger than him currently sport. It could have the potential of looking ridiculous on another less handsome man, but in the bright sunshine, he’s almost ageless. You can’t make out the grey mixed with the blond at his temples, and he must have gotten enough sleep that the fine lines at his mouth and across his forehead have been completely smoothed away.

It’s what she needs, to forget the years that have passed them by, to remember him as he was, and yet, that he looks so carefree makes her irrationally angrier than she was before he was ever even late. He wouldn’t look like such an Adonis if he’d been up at six with a fussy child and spent the night locked in a bathroom with a cold washcloth to her face. Today has all the makings of a bad day.

Hands on hips, she leans down to peer into the car. “Who? Really, Jaime? Half the women in the neighborhood.” Cersei is almost certain gossiping qualifies as a job in their gated King’s Landing community, where most of the women with their purchased plastic tits and noses don’t work outside of the home and nannies and housekeepers handle any of the other tasks a stay at home wife might be expected to perform. No Puerto Rican nanny raised _her_ children. “I’ll smash your leg if you don’t get in and pull around the back.”

She will too, and she grips the door to prove her point, swinging it toward him until his hand catches it. He’s too strong to out muscle, and for one long moment, they’re at a standoff. Finally, he raises the hand in surrender, shakes his head, and presses the ignition button again, bringing the over sexed vehicle back to life, as he pulls his leg back inside. It’s not true what they say about men and their cars, she thinks, straightening up to cross her arms over her chest, as the brisk fall wind cuts through the knit of her sweater, making her nipples tighten. Jaime’s car door slams shut, disturbing the quiet of the neighborhood, and she steps back to get out of the vehicle’s path. For all his failings, Jaime’s not compensating for anything in the bedroom with his flashy little Italian speedster. The bedroom is where everything goes right for Jaime.

Sex might be what she needs to drain some of this venom from her blood. Not just sex, but sex with Jaime, a reminder of a heady age of endless possibility, when it seemed like she was poised to seize everything the world had to offer, when neither of them had a wrinkle or a grey hair or a stretch mark to show the stamp of time. Yes, she needs sex and Jaime’s promise to be on her side throughout whatever storm is coming for her. They’re not married anymore, but she knows they still have more than the physical between them. She can count on him to come to her, just as he came to her today.

She doesn’t watch him reverse and pull back around the sprawling, post modern mansion Robert mistakes as a sign of his good taste and formerly fathomlessly deep pockets, but the squeal of Jaime’s tires is enough to let her know that he’s driving too fast. Probably drove too fast as soon as he was out of nose to nose city traffic. Jaime’s reckless about everything, as if he’s still sixteen years old and invincible, which is why he doesn’t appreciate why he can’t park in front of her house, announcing his presence here for anyone who chances to look out one of their floor to ceiling, arched windows.

He’s still nursing tepid anger, irritated by the need for secrecy, when he comes in through the back door that opens into the mudroom off the kitchen, which she left open for him hours ago, hoping he might be a little more prompt. He complains about the lack of time they have together, but when she wants him, he’s always inexplicably difficult to reach, as if he’s half a continent away and not just across the bridge.

“All this goddamn secrecy. Who the hell cares if I’m parked at your house? I could be coming to see the kids,” he says, tossing his keys down on the counter in a clatter that makes her teeth grit together.

The stainless steel easily scratches. It’s why she won’t allow anyone but their chef to make so much as a sandwich on it, because he’s been instructed on how not to ruin her gorgeous kitchen and he knows that if he does, he’ll not only be out of a job, but relegated to flipping burgers at some fast food joint after she’s finished blackening his reputation. Loyalty in your employees is fleeting. Fear is forever, when a well placed story can haunt your career for the rest of your life.

“That would be a feat, since the kids are at school.” To be precise, all of the children are at school except for Joff. Joffrey is in Boston, having graduated in the spring. He’s working on an internship his grandfather arranged for him—one which she suspects her son isn’t giving the entirety of his attention, gambling on the fact that he will be handed the keys to Lannister Mercantile without any qualifications needed other than his last name—but she knows that Jaime has no interest in being precise about the comings and goings of his children.

“Tommen?”

His brows draw together, and Cersei realizes he’s trying to calculate Tommen’s age, baffled that their towheaded youngest might be old enough to be spending his days in a school and not propped on her hip.

“Is four,” she supplies. “He’s at preschool, and there’s hardly any reason for you to come see him.”

Tommen is Robert’s son, as far as anyone save Jaime knows, so there are no weekend visits, no holidays spent at Jaime’s slick, unwelcoming bachelor apartment, where Myrcella spends most of her time on her laptop, chatting with friends, when Jaime doesn’t cancel altogether. Whether he can acknowledge Tommen or not, his lack of concern is roughly the same for all of their children. It’s never seemed to irk Jaime that he couldn’t have a relationship with their youngest, even if he was eager enough to conceive him to spite Cersei’s new husband if nothing else. But then, living under the same roof, Robert’s no more involved of a father, and Cersei doesn’t find these failures particularly distressing, since she didn’t marry either of them for their perceived potential as parents. She is all the children need. She’s always made certain of that, and as long as she’d do anything for them, it doesn’t matter that they don’t have fathers willing to do the same.

“And you drove all the way to Jersey,” she adds with the same sneer in her voice as he had earlier. Jaime, like any good New Yorker, doesn’t seek out reasons to go to New Jersey, so much as seek out reasons to avoid ever coming here. She wishes she didn’t have to cross the GWB either, but an apartment in the city is out of the question now, given the state of the Baratheon affairs. “I imagine you didn’t come here to complain over coffee.”

“True,” he smirks, stepping forward to sling his arm around her waist, letting his hand settle on the rise of her ass. She’s not wearing panties—they spoil the line under her jodhpur leggings—and despite having just come in from the cold, his hand is hot through the knit fabric, when he squeezes her flesh, causing an immediate pull that no other man has ever produced in her. “What is it you need, sweetheart?”

“What do you think?” she asks, ducking out of his grasp with a swing of her hips. She walks briskly towards the kitchen door, not bothering to put any sway in her hips. He’ll follow regardless. “And hurry up. We don’t have a lot of time, since you couldn’t manage to get here on time.”

They’ll talk later. He listens better after his dick’s been wet. Sex first.

She needs assurance, and the sound of his heavy footfalls behind her echoing over the ebony hardwood of the entry hall and then muffled on the runner going up the stairs is an odd kind of reassurance of her power. Robert is too big for her to hit back, but Jaime will let her scratch and slap and whatever marks he puts on her are only there because she’s allowed them.

“Where are we going?”

It’s a fair question. He’s never even seen this side of the house. No real call for exes to be led to the master suite. That changes today. The fury that has simmered in her blood since Robert got home last night still burns, but blazing hotter is the anticipation of Jaime’s hands on her, Jaime’s mouth, his dick hard and warm in her hand in the bed she shares with her unfaithful husband. She has kept this one room—decorated to suit Robert’s taste for all things gold and black with a tall canopy bed and a mirror hung on the Chinoiserie wallpaper above the cream upholstered headboard to oversee very little connubial bliss—walled off from what happens with Jaime, a nod to common decency and self preservation to avoid getting caught.

If things would have been different in the beginning, she would have never gone back to Jaime at all. Her intentions were to be a good wife to Robert, to be worthy of the acclaim that came with being Robert Baratheon’s wife, but his aim in marrying her had nothing to do with being a good husband. There were other women right from the start. On their honeymoon, he shouted another woman’s name, when he was balls deep inside of her, and afterward she fantasized about using the hotel letter opener to sever him from his disappointing appendage. Jaime would have never disrespected her like that, and so she looked for comfort in the arms of someone who would always love her. It’s the same reason she looks for comfort now in Robert’s bed with her ex.

She grasps Jaime’s hand, drawing him towards the bedroom with a wicked glint in her eye. This will be new. _She_ is not usually so reckless.

“Sit on the edge,” she says with a nod towards the towering bed, as she pulls her sweater over her head with care, so her makeup doesn’t rub against the collar and the collar doesn’t brush the part of her face that is so tender that it hurts when she smiles.

The bed is tall enough that Jaime has to peel back the thick feather comforter and sit on the mattress proper, so that his feet might touch the ground, spread wide enough to leave her room on the plush carpet to kneel. It might be comfort she seeks, but she kneels on the ground in her jodhpurs and red lace bra before him, because nothing reminds her of when they were teenagers as much as having his dick in her mouth.

He was her first. She was his first. First everything. And months before she straddled his lap in his dad’s Mercedes, and let him slide inside her without a condom, because he was going away with the varsity team to Florida on a training trip and she didn’t want him to forget what he had at home, this was how she drove him to madness, and that was the most powerful feeling in the world at the time, when having Jaime seemed like the closest thing to having all the blessings he had by virtue of his birth.

The clink of his belt, the teeth of the zipper giving way, and the whisper of his boxers as she tugs him out are all sounds that trigger memories vivid enough to make her wet although he hasn’t touched her yet. She shifts on her knees, pressing her thighs more closely together, attempting to ease the ache that’s building. Well, she’s not completely untouched, since he already has his hand in her hair, his fingers catching the strands and tugging at the scalp in an eagerness that is so boyish, it only intensifies the sensation of déjà vu, as she swirls her tongue over the head of him, tasting warm salt. He threads her chopped locks through his fingers to pull it away from her face to see her face better, as she peers up at him through her lashes. It’s how he used to, when he’d whisper, _I could watch you do his all day_. He never quite lasted more than a few minutes though, even when she did it more than once over the course of a lazy summer afternoon.

They don’t do this much anymore. They should. There’s something so feral and intimate about being this close to him—smelling him, clean and male, tasting him, stroking him with her mouth and hands, tracing his vein, and peppering him with teasing kisses. Jaime must agree, because he palms the back of her head, grunting a curse, as she takes him in her mouth. She hums and he jerks, thrusting into her mouth, but she’s ready for it. No, they definitely don’t do this enough.

With one hand gripping his gym muscled thigh and the other cupping his balls, she could bring him to orgasm and let him come in her mouth, as her head bobs and her tongue lathes the tip of him again and again, hollowing out her cheeks with each pass over him, but she wants him inside of her, so she stops, when she feels his muscles begin to jump and tighten.

“God dammit,” he groans, as she pulls back with a wet sounding pop and smiles despite the protest her cheek gives.

“Oh, calm down and take off your pants. Take off everything,” she directs, as she comes to her feet and works to shimmy free of her pants and booties, leaving the bra on, because red is Jaime’s favorite and she needs him focused on her breasts and not her face, though with her hair hanging half in front of her face, he doesn’t seem to have noticed anything amiss.

Kicking off his shoes and socks, he works comically fast, pushing his pants down and unbuttoning his shirt, while his dick stands out in red, aroused splendor, begging for relief. Relief they both need.

She grabs the closest decorative, black velvet pillow on the bed and throws it haphazardly off to the side and pats the open space, “Lie back.”

She needs to be on top. It’s a position of power and control, setting the pace, controlling the depth of penetration, and the angle of the rub, but it’s also the position least likely to end with her makeup smeared across her face, revealing what exactly went on last night. She would wear her wound like a badge, proof that a man as big and powerful as Robert Baratheon feels threatened by a pretty woman in heels, but Jaime won’t do her any good inside of a jail cell, and if he knew what she hid underneath her makeup, that’s where he’s wind up. Or he would do something even stupider, like tell Robert what’s been going on behind his back and who Tommen’s father really is, so she’s forced to cave to Jaime’s ludicrous plans of an escape to a life spent in pathetic exile. He speaks of island life, when the only island she wants to conquer is right here.

She could let him fuck her from behind, that’s the safest, considering, but she wants to see his face pillowed in Robert’s place, watch it contort as she slides down him and rocks forward tortuously slowly, so he’s deep inside with her knees sunk into the pillow top mattress. God it’s good. Especially with no condom. She doesn’t want protection today.

She swivels her hips, carving out slow serpentine movements against his body, wet flesh rubbing against wet flesh, enjoying the stretch and fullness with the kind of deliberateness they rarely have time for.

“Fuck, Cersei. Faster,” he pants, his hands stroking along her thighs. “You’re killing me.”

“You’ll survive,” she insists, as his hands reach up to cup her breasts, rubbing teasingly over the lace, and she raises up far enough that the head of him catches on her pubic bone, making her moan. Somehow they have always survived. Every single setback. The end of his prospects as a baseball player, their divorce, Robert Baratheon. As long as she has him, she’ll survive whatever is coming for her.

“Off,” she says, arching her back, as he worries her nipples to the point of pain through the lace, and he complies with the grin she knows so well, sitting up to wrap his right arm around her back and unsnap her bra one-handed. “Nifty trick,” she says before catching him for a kiss, biting into his lower lip and tugging.

“I have more tricks,” he murmurs against her mouth, his arm tightening around her, as if to flip them.

He has plenty of tricks and she loves each and every one of them, but that isn’t in the plan. As nice as it is to kiss him, to feel the heat of his tongue and the slick of his lips against hers, as he shallowly thrusts into her, as nice as it would be to have his arms cage her in, as he moves above her, she shoves him back down, so she can focus on the object at hand—her pleasure. She shrugs out of the arms of the bra, drops it to the floor, and plants her hands on his solid chest, giving herself the purchase she needs to soothe the contraction of her thigh muscles.

His hands can wander over her, making her flesh feel pliant and warm under his strong, unhesitant touch, because she doesn’t need his fingers focused on her clit to come. Not in this position. She knows just how to move, what muscles to engage, until her body begins to flush and she can think of nothing but his dick and the in and out of their bodies moving together. He taunts her, commands her, and finally begs her to come, desperate to move according to his own speed, the speed they usually set together. And when she’s good and ready, she does. It’s so good when it happens. So very, very good. Her head falls back, giving herself over to the shudder that creates pops of light behind her eyelids. Giving in to the grip of her body, pulling at Jaime as he thrusts up into her, fast and uneven, his hands digging into her hips, fingers kneading an arrhythmic pattern until they too go still and he grunts out his release, pulsing inside of her.

“Jaime.”

One word. Just a name. But everything.

She collapses against his chest, turning her cheek, so the one that aches isn’t compressed against the hard planes of his body.

“None of your staff is here today, are they?” he asks, on a breathy chuckle.

“You’re just now worried about that?”

“I had other things on my mind,” he says, kissing the crown of her head.

Typical. As if she would fuck him with a maid and a chef wandering around the house.

Her breathing is still returning to normal, when she says, “Ned Stark has refused to support the Baratheon bid.” Jaime’s body stills, his heart the only steady pulse, as even his chest stops its rise and fall. “Robert told me last night.”

To say was not happy would be something of an understatement. He came home drunk, ready to fight and she was a convenient target.

He has to breathe again to say, “You could have waited five minutes to bring him up.”

“No, I couldn’t.”

“Is that why I’m here?”

He wants it only to be about him. She can feel him growing distant, life disrupting the perfect oneness from moments earlier, and she rolls off of him into the middle of the bed, so that only their shoulders touch.

“Partially.”

He swallows, making his throat bob. “Well, it’s certainly interesting. Ned Stark, man of honor, turning his back on his best friend.”

It was the honorable part of him that demanded it, apparently.

“This could ruin us, Jaime.” Her feet are cold and she tucks them under his thigh, curling in towards him like a shrimp. He doesn’t flinch. “I don’t know what will happen.”

If the business goes under, they’ll have nothing left, but ignominy, the stench of failure, and mockery to follow them, and she married a Lannister and a Baratheon in turn to avoid those very things.

Jaime turns his head on the pillow, his eyes settling on her lips before focusing on her eyes. “Why did he reject the project?”

“On principle.”

“Oh. Well then. On principle,” Jaime repeats with a roll of his eyes. “That principle of his will end up being a political liability one day, I bet, when he finally takes it into his thick head to be principled with the wrong person.”

“We’re supposed to be the wrong people. He shouldn’t be able to cross us and get away with it. We should end him.

“Not this year.”

No, not this year. The senator’s managed to secure another term. “Ungrateful son of a bitch.”

“Too bad we made those contributions to his campaign.”

“Thank you,” she says, letting out a heavy breath. That is the appropriate reaction to Ned’s betrayal. Robert, on the other hand, in between blaming her for things that couldn’t be her fault, went on about how Ned’s a good man and they’ll find another way to save the company, while he swayed, his repulsive body sweating alcohol and spouting bullshit. He yelled obscenities at her, when she insisted they ruin Ned, and swore she would if he didn’t have the stomach for it. “He won that election on the backs of our money and his dead son.”

“He probably would have preferred to do without the dead son part. Didn’t you see the sorry loop of his dour face every time some reporter brought it up?”

“You know, I think if his son wasn’t dead, Robert might actually be able to see this with some clarity. Robert’s mistaken if he thinks they’re still his friends, those grasping climbers. Who has ever heard of White Harbor, Michigan? He’s from the middle of nowhere and ends up the senator of New York. That would have never happened without Robert’s connections.”

As she speaks, she feels her blood stirring again, furious that Ned Stark refused them, but just as furious that Robert would rather attack her than his no good friend, and all the while, Jaime watches her, his hand running through her hair, as her words spill more quickly and her cheeks grow hot, oblivious to the seriousness of her distress. His mouth quirks as if amused.

“Wait. He thinks they’re still friends?”

“He’s holding on to past glories by pretending their still frat buddies for life.”

Jaime reaches over to draw a finger over the line of her shoulder, and Cersei sighs. He’s still distracted, despite having just come. She wants some indignation from him. Something.

“What is the bond there exactly? Did they share women in college or something? They’re an odd match.”

“God only knows. Robert’s an idiot.”

That’s what she’d said to Robert, except she’d put the words in Ned’s mouth. _He thinks you’re an idiot_. He smacked her across the face with the back of his hand in thanks for her assessment of the current state of his friendship with the senator. That’s the origin of the welt she’s covering with expensive foundation a shade too dark, the mark she attempts to keep out of reach when Jaime’s crooked finger extends to brush her cheek. She doesn’t usually let him see her when a mark like this is so fresh, but she couldn’t wait.

“Honey, I’ve been telling you that for years. Walk out of this place with me and don’t come back.”

“I can’t do that.” Jaime huffs, pulling back his arm and crossing them over his bare chest. She will make damn sure Robert suffers for the rest of his life, and she’ll make sure he has no cause to disinherit Tommen, but she will not divorce him. “What Robert doesn’t understand is that everyone who isn’t us is the enemy.”

“Everyone other than _us_ , Cersei. You and me. You can’t count on him.”

“I know. But I _can_ count on you, can’t I?” she asks, grasping one of his rigid arms, dusted in blond hairs that stands out against the tan of his skin that has no rightful place in November. “No matter what happens?”

If Baratheon Industries collapses, with everything on the line she’ll need him. For money. For support. To play her champion.

“I’m always there for you.”

Cersei leans forward to press a kiss to his shoulder. “You’ll help me to do whatever I can, won’t you? We have to ruin them.”

“The Starks? How?”

She can’t afford to take down Robert, not with her fate and the fate of her child tied to him. But there is nothing keeping her from going after the Starks.

“Blacklist them. I’ll plant news in the tabloids—Joffrey is always telling me something about them. Whatever it takes. It will be the end of them socially. By the time another election rolls around, he won’t have so many people eager to stand in his corner.” She curves her body into him, until her breasts compress against the firmness of his side. “You’ll do the same, won’t you?”

The furrow between Jaime’s brows appears for the first time since he climbed from his car, looking untouched by time. It’s deep and troubled and his mouth firms into a hard line, as she digs her fingernails into his flesh, wordlessly willing him to deliver the promise she needs.

“If that’s what you want. The Starks are nothing to me.”

“Good. They’ll be nothing to anyone, when we’re finished.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The order of POVs going forward is Sansa, Cat, Jon. I hope to have all three of these chapters out in pretty quick succession, since they're something of a set. For those of you following the blogs, you know Sansa's birthday is approaching, and it will fall during Jon's chapter. The big 21--well, big in the States, so big for Sansa. Hopefully it will be worth the wait!
> 
> Thank you for all the support for this fic and the blogs. I love fangirling with you all and your comments and messages on tumblr make my day.


	15. Sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is an invitation Sansa intends on accepting in person.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This and the next two chapters will be a mini arc. I hope to publish them in rather quick succession.

Chapter Fourteen: Sansa

Sansa knocks, and when that doesn’t work, she knocks again, _harder_.

Jon has been a little remote the past few days. He’s quiet at meals, doesn’t ask her to join him in the basement for movie marathons or late night popcorn, and responds kind of slow to her texts. She’s not certain why, although it’s not the first time he’s gotten like this since the summer and it never last too long. A week at most.

Sometimes she worries that she teased him too much or pushed him too far, asking him to do something or go somewhere with her that ended up making him uncomfortable and triggered night terrors and sleepless nights and obsessive thinking—all of which she knows he possibly suffers from either because he’s confessed as much to her or she’s learned about it in her research of PTSD, hoping to understand him better. Knowing as much as he needs support, he also sometimes needs time to decompress, so she lets him have his space when he gets like this.

But this evening after dinner and after spending some time in Arya’s mess of a room, she came back to find something tucked under her door. It was a folded piece of lined notebook paper with awkward little doodles in the corner and Jon’s scrawled hand covering the one side that made her breath catch in her throat and sent her with the paper pressed to her chest hurrying down the four flights of stairs, because the elevator was simply too slow. This isn’t Jon being remote. This is Jon really sticking his neck out and it isn’t an invitation she intends on accepting anywhere but in person, so he’s going to have to let her in.

“Jon?” she calls, trying to reach over the sound she can hear bleeding underneath the solid door, meant to keep theater noise in, but not Jon’s music, apparently.

Finally there is a muffled reply that sounds like a response in the positive, so she turns the knob to peek her head through the door. Jon’s on the bed in his usual t-shirt and a soft blue hoodie that makes his grey eyes look a bit more like hers. He leans over, reaching for the iPod attached to a mini speaker on the bedside table, and she mouths, hey, as she opens the door wider and waves the paper at him, when he glances up at her, silencing the music with a tap of his finger. It’s dark out, but there are several lights on, so it’s not as oppressive a mood as she sometimes finds his room sunk in. Same can’t be said of the music though.

“You know, you might be less depressed if you didn’t listen to such miserable music all the time,” she says, wrinkling her nose.

“That was a happy song.”

Sansa laughs. “Not that happy if you have to _tell_ people it’s happy.”

He’s fighting one of those reluctant smiles that pulls at the corner of his full lips, when she teases him. It’s a small personal victory every time she wins the day and he gives in and smiles.

“You might be right about that,” he says, scooting over in the bed, a wordless invitation to claim her spot.

It’s the right hand side, where she accidentally fell asleep not so long ago in the midst of a movie, causing something of a frenzy in the household the next morning when she couldn’t be found and then when she was discovered by Osha with her head pillowed on Jon’s chest. Between the au pair babbling in Norwegian and a stony faced mother, she knows better than to fall asleep here again. She apologized and insisted it was a mistake. She can lie when she needs to. The falling asleep was an unintended accident, but the rest of it, not so much. But her mother doesn’t need to know that, Jon doesn’t need to know that, and it’s certainly none of Osha’s business, and considering none of them are the wiser, she and Jon should be able to hang out like before in his room alone without any nosy commentary.

“What’ve you been up to?” he asks, as she toes off her black ballet flats.

After the odd, empty emotion that surrounded Thanksgiving, when she and no one else felt thankful about the past year, the hectic scurrying around on Black Friday for whatever presents she hadn’t already snagged, and a late night meet up with Jeyne, who like everyone else was home from college, but proved to be the only friend who seemingly had time to see her, she didn’t feel like getting particularly dolled up this morning. It’s a black leggings, tunic, and ponytail kind of day, which means for once she and Jon look like they could be going the same place or not going anywhere together. The only thing she took any time on was tying the bow in her hair just right and giving her nails a shiny new coat of polish.

“Sister stuff.”

“Sounds promising.”

“I polished Arya’s fingernails.”

He scrunches up his face, a contortion of disbelief, as she climbs into the bed beside him. “She let you paint her fingernails?”

Jon’s makes it sound like Arya would have to be bound and gagged to force her to comply with a manicure, like getting her nails done is some kind of torture. He’s not entirely wrong. Concessions had to be made or she wouldn’t have gotten anywhere.

“Black.”

Pink would have been prettier and a little less severe on someone thirteen, but Sansa knows well enough not to push it with her little sister. Black was the only color out of Sansa’s little polka dot basket of colors Arya would ever consider except maybe that sickly grey that Sansa never used again after it made her feel like a zombie from one of Jon’s horrible movies.

He shakes his head, still disbelieving. “Still.”

Sansa tucks her legs underneath her. “She was texting that boy again. I don’t know whether I like the idea of her texting a boy. So, I polished her fingernails.”

Jon sits back against his headboard, arms crossed over his chest. “How does painting her fingernails prevent her from texting this kid?”

“They’ll smudge if she does,” she says, surveying her own handiwork on her left hand, black as well in an attempt to bond. “I did three coats. It will take forever to dry.”

“I hate to break it to you, but I don’t think she’ll care if it smudges.”

She hums, shaking her head. Jon’s right. Arya won’t care at all. It’s Sansa who worries about such things, not Arya. Her sister scowled the whole time Sansa brushed the polish on even though she’d agreed to it. There’s no reason she’ll protect that polish and forego doing whatever it is she wants to do, including texting Gendry Waters. Sansa and her sister never quite get each other. They’re like opposite sides of a coin, as different as night and day even if they’re made from the same stew of Stark genes. Jon always manages to understand her own sister better than she does, when he’s a guy and a dozen years older than Arya, as if that isn’t embarrassing.

It was never like that between Sansa and Jon, that natural ease, which is why even six months ago, she would have never expected to be spending her birthday with Jon at his invitation. She slides her fingers over the fold in Jon’s note, thinking how she might bring up the topic of his invitation, since he seems unlikely to mention it. As if on cue, his eyes dart to it and away. She presses her lips together, setting Jon’s note down in the narrow space between them. At the soft crinkle of the paper, his arms uncross and his fingers begin to drum a whispery rhythm against his thigh.

“Look what I found under my door.”

“You got it.”

“I did.”

He won’t even look at the thing, as if it’s a snake that’s about to bite him.

She pokes him in the leg, forcing him to look at her. “Is this the surprise? The big plans for my birthday?”

That’s what he’s been telling her since before Halloween. There was some plan afoot, something he was working himself up to for her birthday. It was all very covert.

“Close enough to a surprise, I hope. I thought you might want to buy something new to wear. I would have waited until the day of, but I worried asking you to go to The Wall on your twenty-first birthday on a moment’s notice might cause a sartorial crisis.”

“It probably would. You’re right.” She smiles, biting her bottom lip in anticipation. New dress, new shoes. Just the thing to go out on her twenty-first to one of the hottest clubs. Maybe a new lipstick. Something really sophisticated, more grown up than her usual shimmery lip gloss. Shopping will be a distraction from the unpleasantness she knows awaits her. “I’ll buy something new.”

The Wall is totally not Jon’s style and definitely out of his current comfort zone with loud music, flashing lights, and crowds of people, but he’s chosen it as the place he wants to take her and buy her very first legal drink, because it will be exciting and memorable for her, a real event, even if it makes him uncomfortable, which makes it one of the sweetest things anyone’s ever thought to do for her. She read the invite and finally understood why he was trying to work himself up to this surprise. It’s no small thing.

He glances sideways at her, his eyes slightly hooded, as he asks, “Was it a surprise?”

“Completely. My jaw dropped a little, I think.”

He’s been adamant that he does not dance, but it’s also pretty clear that Jon’s speed is more neighborhood pub than club scene thanks to his natural temperament. Never mind the triggers that will inevitably pop up in a crowded, loud club environment. This is not anything close to what she imagined he possibly had planned to do for her.

He rubs the back of his neck, staring down into his lap. “It was just an idea. If there’s some other way you want to celebrate, don’t feel like you’re hurting my feelings by giving me the brush off.”

She pokes him again, which is probably one poke too many. “No, are you kidding? You’re not going to get rid of me that easily. It’s exactly what I want.”

“You can invite your friends. I know it would be boring with just me and Theon.”

That’s how the invitation finishes off— _I made the mistake of asking Theon’s opinion on club of choice and he invited himself. Sorry._

“Forget about my friends,” she says with a wave of her hand. Margaery has made it pretty clear she’s too busy. For those people who didn’t fail out of school there are finals and end of semester parties and holiday formals keeping them plenty busy, so it’s not really a lie, just disappointing. Thinking about all she’s missing out on makes her feel really unwanted and left behind, but she’s got this one thing, this thing Jon has planned for her, and that’s going to be better than whatever she had at school. And Jon’s better at picking out friends worth having, so she might as well celebrate with them instead. “What about Sam?”

Theon is kind of a party guy and isn’t likely to understand Jon’s issues. But Sam might make Jon feel more at ease, so the night doesn’t end up being totally miserable for Jon, and there’s no way Sansa will be able to enjoy herself if it is at Jon’s expense. Sam was Jon’s roommate in college, assigned freshman year based on those forms you fill out about all your preferences in living arrangements. At first it didn’t look like the forms had done much good, but the university’s residence life office must have known what they were doing. While it’s sort of an unlikely friendship on the face of things, it’s no more unlikely than the friendship that’s sprung up between her and Jon, and so far it’s survived the test of time, despite them not living in the same city for several years. They have these amusingly awkward Skype sessions. She sat in on one once, leaning against Jon’s shoulder, teasing them both.

“You want to go out with three guys on your birthday?”

“Three _older_ guys. Why not?” she demands airily before pushing at his leg. It’s the third time and she tucks her hand under her leg to stop herself from grabbing for him again. “Jealous?”

At her question, color creeps up his neck and across his face. The flush on his cheeks makes him look younger, like the nervous, gawky teenager she remembers going off to boarding school every year with Robb.

“Maybe.”

She rolls her eyes. “Uh huh, right.”

“I’ll ask him.”

“Thank you. Really. It’s going to be the best thing about my birthday.”

Her voice does a funny dip at the end that mimics the swoop of her stomach, as she thinks of what she knows will be coming for her on her birthday. She’s decided to tell her parents she’s not going back to school. The plan is to lower the boom on her birthday, when they’re less likely to freak out to the full extent they have every right to freak out to, since she wasted their money for two years at an expensive university and she’s the family’s first real failure, a black mark on an otherwise sterling reputation. Ever since she swore to herself this morning that she would do it on her birthday, she’s had a sinking feeling this birthday will be one she’ll remember for all the wrong reasons.

“Don’t be too sure of that,” he begins, as she picks up the invitation, worries the fold again with her nails, and places it on the side table with a sniff she’s having trouble holding in. He trails off, stopping whatever self deprecation he was about to indulge in. “What’s wrong?”

“My birthday is going to be rough.”

“They can be.”

For other people, maybe. For Jon probably for a long time, ever since his mother died. But this is the first birthday Sansa will celebrate that she doesn’t expect going in to be all roses and lemony birthday cake and pretty, new jewelry in blue boxes wrapped in white bows. But then, the shine is off the apple of life, and she doesn’t think she’ll ever expect things to be perfect again. She has adjusted expectations and maybe that’s for the best.

“It’s my fault. I figure if I’m going to be a big girl, I need to come clean about some junk with my mom.” She brushes a piece of hair that’s escaped her ponytail behind her ear and scoots back until she and Jon sit shoulder to shoulder and pulls her knees up to her chest. The heat of his arm and the smell of the soap he uses are weirdly comforting, soothing the anxiety that courses through her as she thinks about school, so she breathes deeper, preparing to say it out loud for the first time. “I’m going to tell her I’m not going back to school. Ever.”

“Ever?”

“Yeah.” It’s frightening to admit to someone. To hear aloud what it sounds like to be a disappointment, when since childhood she’s always aimed to please, to be the perfect little girl, doing just as she should. “Everything was a mess there. I don’t want to go back.”

Yes, there were the grades, but there was more than that. There was Joffrey. And then there was Dean Baelish. Joffrey might be gone, but Petyr isn’t. She’d run the risk of seeing the dean and reliving her shame all over again if she went back to school. The very notion makes her nauseous.

“What happened to it being a break?”

His voice is steady and calm, everything she hopes her mother will be, but fears she won’t be, when Sansa tells her she’s not going back.

Her eyes begin to fill up and she tilts her head up to the ceiling to try to stem the flow of tears that threaten to spill down her cheeks. “That was a lie.” One of many, when it came to what happened to her last spring, as her world slowly came apart piece by piece long before she ever got the call about Robb. She started to lie to cover up what was going on. Makeup to cover the bruise. A trip with her girlfriends over spring break and another over Easter break, when she was really in the Hamptons with a man old enough to be her father. A house she felt really grown up in, playing at some adult game of high end affairs, when for all she knows it wasn’t even his house, but some rental he was only claiming as his own. Jon’s hand rests on her thigh, pulling her back to the moment, saving her from the sick memories that threaten to choke her. “A delay tactic at least,” she says, desperately trying to clear her throat.

Once she started lying, she never could figure out when to stop, and she’s still not ready to tell the truth about what she allowed to happen. She doesn’t think she’ll ever be ready.

“Are you running away?”

That’s the kind of truth she can offer, the type that won’t dim the kindness in his eyes when he hears it. “Yes.” She twists to look him full in the face, covering his hand with her own and squeezing hard. “Sometimes there are things you need to run away from. Everything was so screwed up there. Like bad and unhealthy.”

He doesn’t offer advice, doesn’t contradict her, and she doesn’t need those things anyway. She just needs someone to understand. To listen. Jon’s good at both those things.

“Okay.”

“I can’t go back.”

And when he says it again, “Okay,” there’s something else there, something he wants to say, some hint of it in the way his lips part and his eyes skim over her face, but Jon’s not always good with words, and the silence begins to stretch out between them.

“I figured I’d tell Mama on my birthday and maybe she won’t get as angry. Since it’s my birthday,” she says, tipping her head to the side with a pout.

“Now you’re thinking,” he says with a soft smile.

His hair is mussed like he was lying down before she came in. The curls stand out in swoops at the back of his head, unruly curls that she wouldn’t mind putting right with questing fingers.

Chatting with Jeyne this weekend over coffee, Jon kept coming up unintentionally, because what else does she have to talk about? And finally Jeyne admitted with a giggle, _I always thought he was the sweetest one of your brother’s group, but I would have never told you that_.

Because Sansa was annoyed by Jon and didn’t make too much of a secret of it. He didn’t belong. He took Robb’s attention away from her. He took up her daddy’s attention. Arya liked him so much better than she did her. No one asked Sansa if it was okay if the Snow boy came to live with them, and if they would have done, she would have said it wasn’t. It wasn’t okay at all.

But she can see it now, what Jeyne must have seen beyond his quiet, sullen moods and skinny limbs. She can appreciate him for what he is without hating him for what he’s not—her brother. He’s something else altogether.

 _From seeing you guys on television, during the campaign, he’s the cutest too_.

Jon’s so close, she can feel his breath on her face and she can see every eyelash, every fleck in his irises, and the scar. The one that runs along his temple like a white web that puckers the skin in a couple of places. He came home with it. It marks his loss, marks his tragedy in a way she isn’t marked. She has scars too. They’re just on the inside, where no one can see them.

She reaches up to trace it with her fingertip, leaning in closer with the intention of pressing their foreheads together, wondering, which is worse? The kind of scars people can see and stare at or the ones no one knows you carry, so the burden is yours alone? As her finger brushes his skin, he flinches with a slight jerk of his chin and a corresponding spasm of his eyelid. She pulls back her hand, as an electric shock of shame rushes through her.

That was presumptuous of her. Too much. She’s always going too far with him. Touching him too much, getting too close, spending too much time down here in his room, but she can’t seem to help herself, when he makes her feel…

Something.

“Jon, I’m sorry,” she says on a thick swallow. “I’m really, really sorry.”

Her hand still hovers there, a hairsbreadth away, stupidly hanging in the air, when he reaches up and slips his arm around her back, tugging her into his chest. The tears are back, she realizes, as they slip out, humiliated, shameful tears, and she tucks her face into the soft cotton of his hoodie to bury them. She can hear the racing of his heart under her ear and his arm trembles against her back, holding something back, holding something in, as his hand creeps lower over her waist, pulling her tighter against him until their legs tangle together.

“It’s from the IED. I remember the whole damn thing in excruciating detail every time I look in the mirror. So I try not to look.”

That’s the answer. Outside or inside. It doesn’t matter. Scars are all painful. He can’t stand to look at his and though hers isn’t visible in the mirror, it’s still why she dyed her hair: so she wouldn’t look like that same girl whose boyfriend hit her, so she could pretend to be someone else entirely.


	16. Catelyn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Sansa's birthday, her favorite day of the year, and yet, there's something off with her from the moment she and Jon walk into the kitchen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspiration pick for the Stark townhouse’s kitchen [here](http://justadram.tumblr.com/post/68898651429/heres-the-inspiration-photo-for-the-stark). A little note on the inspiration pics. Since this is supposed to be an Upper East Side townhouse, the pictures are from actual Upper East Side Townhouses. Same goes for the other locations. I look for a certain style that seems to fit the family, but this is a modern au. The Stark kitchen looks a little castle like, but don't expect direwolves stamped on everything and the whole interior to be grey. ;)

Chapter Fifteen: Catelyn

Cat is working on the first steps in preparing a hot breakfast on this chilly December morning, one arm wrapped around a ceramic mixing bowl and her other whisking eggs, when Sansa comes into the kitchen, shuffling along in her bunny slippers with Jon no more than a step behind. They both look as if they just got up. Sansa’s hair is pulled back in a messy bun and she’s yet to change out of her pajamas. Jon’s dressed, as dressed as he usually gets in a t-shirt and jeans, but his eyes are puffy and his curls are sticking out every which way. They look half asleep, but their timing is rather impeccable, stumbling in together.

Neither of them is reliably up this early, when Rickon, Bran, and Arya head off for school, but it’s that age, Cat supposes, when biologically all you want to do is sleep. At least it’s a fair enough excuse for Sansa. Jon’s getting a bit old for lazing about the house all hours of the day and night.

“Morning, birthday girl,” she says, turning to kiss Sansa’s pillow creased cheek, as her daughter reaches up in the cabinet for her mug, the pink Kate Spade one, which has been her favorite for years.

“Good morning,” Sansa says, though not particularly brightly.

It could be that she’s not quite awake yet, but Cat suspects there’s something else going on. A mother knows these things. Sansa lives for her birthday and on this of all days, she should be bright eyed and bushy tailed, not sleepy and quiet. Setting down the bowl, Cat catches the slightest gesture out of the corner of her field of vision: Jon brushes Sansa’s elbow with his hand and gives her a little nod. She’s not the only one who knows something is amiss.

“Morning, Jon,” Cat says a tad loudly.

“Morning,” he says, his shoulders stiffening in that same soldier like way Ned still displays. Some things the years do nothing to erase.

He looks away from Cat and takes the mug from Sansa’s hand. “I’ll get it for you.”

“Thank you,” Sansa says, as she climbs into one of the counter height chairs at the kitchen island and crosses her legs, one pink, fuzzy flannel leg over the other.

It isn’t an ideal situation, having a grown child living your home, unemployed and otherwise unengaged, and the situation with Jon has never been entirely easy, but Jon is always making himself useful, always pitching in to help with the kids, lending an extra hand, no different from Sansa. That's what Ned sees, what he chooses to focus on. What Cat sees, however, is a young man going nowhere, despite the fact that his next birthday will be his twenty-sixth, a time when she and Ned were adults with real jobs and children and all the responsibilities that come with them. Despite the fact that Robb won’t be here to celebrate his birthday, which Cat wishes would make Jon feel some drive to do something with his life like move out or get a job. Something. He has all these opportunities Robb will never have, and he’s wasting them. Yes there were casualties, yes he was injured, yes it is a protracted recovery process, but he’s still here—and the same can’t be said of Robb.

“Can I freshen your cup?”

He looks eerily like Ned, at that age—an unfortunate coincidence in otherwise unrelated strands of DNA, considering it has contributed over the years to either innocent confusion or hateful speculation in the media—but at least he doesn’t sound like him. There’s no mistaking Jon for Ned when they speak.

“Yes, thank you,” Cat answers without turning. “How does twenty-one feel, honey?” shes asks, pulling open the refrigerator and swallowing once her head is hidden.

“Good. Thank you, Mama.”

With Jon and Sansa up, they’ll need more eggs. She opens the crate. Five left. That should just about do it, she thinks, letting the paneled refrigerator door close behind her.

Jon eats a lot even if Sansa doesn’t. When Cat was feeding two growing teenage boys, it sometimes felt like she never could keep enough food in the house. They could eat through a well stocked cupboard in a week and go out at night to the diner for burgers and fries and still be as skinny as bean poles. Eventually she’ll be there again with Bran and Rickon, although she could do with them being babies for a while yet. There’s a desire of late to try to keep them that way if she can. They are safer as babies. Safest when you can still hold them to your chest.

“It was cold like this the day you were born. It was snowing. Have I ever told you that?”

Her beautiful little baby girl. She always wanted a little girl, and when they brought her home from the hospital wrapped up tight, the little wisps of hair atop her head shown like copper—a shade lighter than her own. She was perfect right from the start. Slept right through the night. The easiest baby ever.

“Daddy did. Three feet of snow. Coldest winter in years.”

“It was,” she thinks, smiling down at the bowl. Being from Michigan, he considered it an auspicious beginning to Sansa’s life that the weather did its worst on the day of her birth. He said something ridiculous about how it would make her stronger. “Your daddy sent you flowers,” Cat says, nodding towards the brightly colored bouquet on the sill behind Sansa’s back, as she cracks the first of the remaining eggs into the bowl.

Sansa twists in her seat to see them, and when she does, there’s a real smile that lights her face. Ned’s given Sansa flowers every year for her birthday since she turned twelve, when she announced that Ned's old standby for her birthday—dolls—were for babies and she was no longer a baby. Cat worried he might forget her flowers this year, considering how things have been. Thanksgiving was certainly an odd kind of strained disaster after all. So she reminded him two nights ago on the phone to be safe, but he assured her they were already ordered. That’s her Ned.

“Aren’t they pretty?” Sansa says with a stifled yawn.

“He’ll be getting in around four. Plenty of time before your family birthday dinner.” He’s been busy in D.C. since the election, so between Thanksgiving and Sansa’s birthday, it feels like Cat can finally almost breathe again with Ned being around some to help shoulder the everyday burdens. She’ll sleep better with him here too with his hand warm on her hip and his heavy breathing a welcome cadence to fill up the emptiness of the night's long hours. She gathers the empty shells in one hand and opens a tall cabinet, where the trashcan hides to toss them in. “I’m making your favorite.”

Sansa hums. “I’ve been thinking about it for days.”

Every child’s birthday is made to be special. The family dinner is the cornerstone of Stark birthdays, and you always get your favorite. With Rickon that means they all eat a rather unfortunate dinner of macaroni and cheese, dinosaur chicken nuggets, and ‘worms in dirt’ for dessert, and Cat can only hope that with age will come some improvement in his taste. Sansa’s choice is no less divisive, although they’ll all eat the lemon cake frosted in thick icing from her favorite bakery without complaint. It’s the fish that’s the issue. Arya and Rickon refuse to eat sea bass and normally she wouldn’t make other arrangements for them, since children need to eat what’s being served and birthday dinners are about the person having the birthday, not the rest of them, but in the interest of family harmony, she’ll make them pan fried cod, which they will eat if a little reluctantly. Thank goodness Bran is less finicky.

“Here you go,” Jon says, setting the coffee down next to Sansa.

Cat can tell from the light tan color that Jon’s heavily creamed and sugared it the way she likes it, so that it’s barely coffee at all. Her baby girl might be twenty-one, but in some ways she’s only still playing at being a grown up. Which is fine. Sansa’s life since she was a teenager seemed to be moving too fast, from working as a professional model in France to seeming on the verge of becoming engaged to Joffrey Lannister. The modeling seems to be on hold now and they haven’t seen hide nor hair of Joff, so that must be over. That’s fine too. Plenty of time to be a woman yet.

Jon’s got a mug of his own, but instead of sitting down, he walks to the sill and picks up the crystal vase and moves it onto the island before Sansa, presumably so she can see it better. Cat looks down at the bowl swimming with partially whisked eggs and unbroken ones to avoid seeing what will undoubtedly be another silent exchange between the two of them. She doesn’t know what to make of them, but ever since that incident where Sansa wasn’t in her bed, where she should be in the morning, Cat’s been on edge about it. The problem is she doesn’t know quite what to say to Ned about it. Until she decides how to handle it, imagining what might be prompting their newfound closeness only makes her uneasy.

“Eggs and toast sound good?” Cat asks, working to sound cheery, as she picks up the whisk.

Sansa nods, though her attention is fixed on the flowers.

Jon finally takes his seat and slumps forward, resting his arms around either side of the hot mug with elbows on the table like he was raised by wolves.

He clears his throat. “You don’t have to go to the trouble. I’ll just pour myself some cereal.”

Whisking briskly, she shakes her head. “Some protein might give you the get up and go to get out of the house today.”

“Jon and I _are_ getting out today,” Sansa jumps in.

The whisk stills in her hand. “Are you? What are your plans, sweetheart?”

“We’re going out,” Sansa says, lifting her mug to her lips with two hands wrapped around it. “Tonight. With Theon. It’s what my new dress is for, the one I showed you.” Cat’s face must betray the concern that tightens her chest, because Sansa lowers the mug and adds, “It’s okay. Jon will keep me out of trouble.”

“Where are you going?”

“The Wall,” Jon supplies.

“What kind of place is that?”

“A club. The hottest club,” Sansa says with a little shimmy of her shoulders.

“What time?”

“Late,” Sansa says. “You and daddy will be fast asleep.”

“And who is going again?”

“Jon and Theon. Sam couldn’t come.”

Cat blinks. Those are Jon’s friends, not Sansa’s. “Don’t you have any girlfriends you can celebrate with?”

“No.”

“Jeyne or Margaery?”

Sansa shifts on her chair, a hint of petulance creeping into her voice, when she says, “No. They’re at school.”

Cat considers objecting and refusing to allow Sansa to go, because Jon’s so much older and Theon is a manipulator, but there’s no point in it. At least Jon’s responsible, and if she was away at school, she’d celebrate however she wanted with no one responsible around to watch over her and there’s very little Cat could do about it. It could be worse.

It’s only that this isn’t how Cat imagined her daughter would want to spend her big night. Circumstances being what they are, Sansa and Jon keep being thrown together. The only consolation is that Sansa will be going back to school soon and hopefully Jon will be off doing something with himself too and that will be the end of it between them. Whatever _it_ is. Nothing to worry about.

Jon rubs at the back of his neck, further disturbing his curls, avoiding Cat’s gaze, as she considers him, while sinking her weight into one hip. He’s old enough that he could find a girl, get married, and start a family of his own, not just move out on his own like she’s been hoping he would. It will sting, watching Jon do the things Robb can’t and reach all those happy milestones, but it might be nice to have something like grandbabies around. Cat doesn’t really feel done with babies herself, but Mother Nature might have different ideas, so it’s the logical next phase in life, doting grandma. However, Jon would have to actually go out if he’s going to meet anyone, that being a necessary first step.

And he can barely pull himself together.

“You might get a haircut before you go out tonight, Jon. The girls don’t like all that messy head of hair. Do they, sweetheart?”

Sansa flushes, her cheeks turning a rosy pink. “I don’t know,” she says, clipped and high. “I’ve never given Jon’s hair any thought.”

Cat purses her lips and begins whisking again. Sansa’s given everyone’s hair thought. She thinks her father should part his differently to appeal to younger voters.

“I’m going to shave.”

Jon’s retort is unexpected enough to make Cat look up at him twice. “Well, that’s something at least.”

“And you’re going to wear a suit,” Sansa says, reaching out over the island to bat at his hand. “You said I could pick it out.”

“They’re all the same.”

“So it’s that kind of club,” Cat says, as she picks up the bowl of whisked eggs and carries it over to the sink.

“What?” Sansa asks, drawing back her hand and blinking, looking owlishly at her, as if her mind is on anything but the words coming out of her mother’s mouth.

Setting the bowl down, Cat pulls out the dripping whisk and gives it a tap on the side of the stainless steel bowl. “The kind where you wear a suit.” Not the sort of place Cat imagines Jon ever going. Unless he’s hoping to impress Sansa. She turns on the faucet and speaks over it, “I’m trying to remember what I did on my twenty-first, but it was nothing that glamorous.” It might have been wine coolers with her sorority sisters and a sloppy game of truth or dare, but those days all run together and it’s hard to say whether her birthday or some other random night of revelry resulted in puking pink.

She fixes the two of them in turn with her _I’m not joking around_ face. “Don’t get so intoxicated that your brothers and sister notice tomorrow that something is amiss.” She sticks the whisk under the water. “And take your father’s driver. It’ll be safer that way.”

“Thank you,” Jon mumbles into his mug, as Cat turns towards the two side by side stoves, where she’s placed a large skillet with pats of butter awaiting heat.

She turns the far right burner on, the click of the gas preceding the bright flame that flares to life under the skillet, and then reaches for the bakery wrapped whole grains and nut bread. It isn’t pre-sliced, so she pulls the serrated knife from the wooden block. Six slices should do it, but that’s two more than the toaster will take. Luckily, they can wait a space with the eggs needing to cook and Arya and the boys probably only now getting ready under Osha’s prodding. She piles the bread slices up on a plate one after another, while the butter melts over low heat and Jon and Sansa sip their coffee in silence.

She’s about to turn back to the stove, when Sansa’s asks, “Mama, can I talk to you? Before the kids come down?”

Her tone betrays everything, which is odd, since she’s been the most unreadable of all the children in their grief since the spring. Whatever it is that dampened her spirits, as she came downstairs this morning on her special day, it’s serious. She’s too resolute. Her voice too firm for this to be anything casual. Too coached like this is an introduction she’s practiced.

Cat looks to Jon, who should probably excuse himself. Over the course of a dozen years, he’s generally learned the trick of not getting in the way, and this is clearly a discussion she needs to have alone with her daughter, but he’s looking at Sansa and she’s looking back at him, and Cat realizes he’s not going anywhere. Whatever this serious thing is that Sansa wants to talk about, she’s already talked about it with Jon. It’s no accident they showed up here together this morning, padding through the door in socks and slippers right on each other’s heels. This was all orchestrated. Jon’s her moral support.

They probably have no idea how transparent they are.

Cat breathes out. “Of course, honey,” she says, leaning against the island, her hands splayed flat against its cool surface.

“It’s about school,” Sansa says, glancing down into her mug.

Sansa’s shoulders are rigid and straight, her face a bland mask, but Cat can see that her chest rises and falls a little too fast, as she stares down into the mug. There’s no small amount of effort being put into this achieved composure. Jon wordlessly stands and takes the mug from her. The tension must be infecting them all, but while refilling Sansa’s mug gives Jon something to do, the nervous energy Cat feels has no outlet, as she waits for her daughter to continue. Half a dozen possibilities of what it is Sansa needs to say race through Cat's mind, one worse than the next.

Sansa lifts her head and speaks clearly, looking Cat in the face, as she’s been taught, when addressing her elders. “I failed my classes spring semester.”

Cat’s fingertips pull back on the unyielding surface. “What?”

“I know I should have told you earlier and I’ve only made it worse by pretending I was taking a break, but I failed my classes.”

She speaks slowly, as if Cat might not understand her otherwise. There’s a part of her that hopes she really is completely misunderstanding. Sansa is all ladylike composure as usual, posture erect, hands folded in her lap, and words clearly enunciated, but the rest of it makes no sense. Sansa doesn’t fail at anything.

“Which ones?”

“All of them.” She raises her hand, counting off on her fingers, starting with her thumb. “Chemistry. Calculus. American Lit. Even music theory and that should have been easy after all those years of piano lessons.”

“Did you…did you not take your finals after?”

After Robb. That would be understandable if that’s what happened. But was it during finals? Cat can’t remember, although it must have been for Sansa to fail every single one of her classes. Ned will be disappointed, but he’ll understand. The university will understand. Everything can be fixed.

But this only causes more questions to assault Cat. Did Sansa speak with anyone there about what was happening? Was the dean aware of her loss? Did she contact her advisor or any of her professors? These things happen, students have crises, and surely they would have understood if they only knew. They might have let her retake her exams at a later date or take an incomplete. Those are the kind of things normally as a mother she would have made sure Sansa handled or saw to it that someone did it for her if she was incapable of doing it herself, but Cat was so numb, when she found out her baby boy was dead, it never occurred to her. Sansa was left to fend for herself.

Jon reaches over Sansa and sets the mug back down in front of her, his shoulder brushing hers, and Sansa smiles weakly up at him.

“Your finals, Sansa,” Cat presses.

“I didn’t sit for my finals, but I didn’t take my midterms either.”

That’s not what Cat expected Sansa to say. Everything about the spring is fuzzy and muddled in Cat’s mind, as if she was a zombie for the whole of it, shuffling through life, lit only by anger and fear and grief fierce enough to crush her under its weight, but she knows well enough that Sansa’s midterms would have been well before the accident. Robb’s death couldn’t be the cause.

Cat lifts her hands, steepling them under her nose. “Sweetheart, why didn’t you tell me?”

The spring semester will be starting in six weeks. Cat has it marked on the calendar in red Sharpie. There isn’t much time with the university closing for the winter break to fix whatever damage has been done. There are probably classes she should have been taking, somehow trying to bring her GPA back up if she’s on probation, but it’s too late for that now.

Sansa shrugs one shoulder, causing her fluffy white robe to slip off. She doesn’t stop it, as it catches on the rungs of the chair and hangs suspended. With just one burner on the stove lit and the heat not quite up to heating the cold house on only a couple of hours sunshine, she can see goose bumps prickle Sansa’s slim, bare arms.

“It’s embarrassing being the dumb one.”

Jon’s stern, “Hey,” overlaps her own outrage. “You’ve always been the best student in this family.” Mathematics isn’t her strong suit, but Cat could always count on Sansa to bring home A’s in her other classes and all the teachers were very fond of her. She never accumulated detentions the way Arya does or the notes that plague Bran about talking out of turn. No one would ever label her a problem child, a little wildebeest. Cat never worried about getting a call from the head master about Sansa’s behavior, the way she did with Robb, who had a terrible habit of getting caught, while everyone else’s minor infractions managed to slip by undetected. “I won’t have you talking about yourself like that.”

“There’s nothing to do be done about it, and I know what you’re going to say.”

Children always think they do. “What’s that?”

“That I need to call the university. That I should have made a plan with my advisor to dig my way out.”

“Well, why didn’t you?”

Sansa presses her lips together, making them go white. “Because I didn’t really want to. I didn’t want to be there.”

“You love it there.”

Sansa danced around the house for a week, when her acceptance came and she knew she’d be going to school where Joffrey was already a sophomore. It was, as she put it at the time, _The only thing I ever wanted_.

“Not anymore. I’m not going back.”

She says it so calmly. Like an adult who has come to a firm decision, not a child seeking approval.

The words echo in Cat’s ears, sounding unfathomable, but the signs were there. Signs she’s been ignoring, as she worked to shore everyone up and try to get things back to some imitation of normality. Sansa has not been acting like someone getting ready to go back to school, anymore than she acted like she was going back this summer, when she announced that she needed a break, because she was still too grief stricken to be any kind of success at school.

Her words are a shock, whether they should be or not, but they are secondary to the way Cat’s heart begins to pound as she watches Sansa fight through whatever underlying fears she has at revealing her decision, so as to present a brave front. There is only so much unhappiness Cat can watch her children endure.

“I’m sorry, I know I wasted my time and your money, but I can’t go back. It’s not that I couldn’t keep up. I just couldn’t bring myself to do the work.”

There’s more to this. There has to be, but it’s obviously important to Sansa that she present her case maturely and with a minimal show of emotion. It’s not so different from what Cat has been trying to do for months—maintain a little dignity, while she keeps the world from completely crumbling.

“It doesn’t sound as if there’s much point in arguing about this.”

Sansa gives a little shake of her head. “There isn’t.”

“You’ve really thought about this?”

“For months.”

“Okay.”

Sansa watches her, her blue eyes wide, as if waiting for her to retract her words. Finally, she says in a voice that sounds more like the little girl Cat recalls, seeking approval, “I just hope I’m not a terrible disappointment.”

“Oh, honey. I’m disappointed you didn’t come to me sooner, but you’re not a disappointment. Never that. Okay?”

Sansa lifts her mug and sips, giving a half hearted shrug, as she covers the bottom part of her face, hiding as best she can.

“We’ll figure it all out.” Cat knows if she moves around this island, if she encircles Sansa in her arms, and asks her to tell her exactly what went wrong, Sansa will give in to tears and she’ll come to the breakfast table with a splotched face and a swollen nose that Rickon will comment on and her birthday will become about this secret she’s been carrying around for all these months, instead of a bright spot in an otherwise unspeakably terrible year. The tears can wait for tomorrow. “We’ll make a plan and we’ll deal with this. Tomorrow. Okay?”

There will have to be a plan. Sansa will need to apply to another school, maybe someplace close by. Or get a job. They have connections, people they could call on to get her a job that would help her get back on her feet and gain back some confidence. Or maybe apply to fashion school. She hasn’t had any modeling jobs since she arrived home with her hair dyed dark, but she’s still got heaps of fashion magazines from around the world in her bedroom, which she pours over like the secret to life is contained inside of them. There’s got to be something that would make her happy and keep her busy. She’ll just need to figure out what that is. That’s the hardest part of becoming an adult. Figuring it out for yourself, but it’s the most important step, the one that leads to happiness. All Cat wants is for all her children to be happy, productive, good people. Sansa’s path just might not be as direct as it looked like it would be, born under a happy star.

“Yes, Mama.”

“We’ll have to sit down and have a long talk with your father. You need to tell him what you’ve told me. I won’t do it for you.”

“Okay.” She traces the rim of her mug with her index finger. She’s wearing black polish. So is Arya, strangely enough. “I just wanted to tell you first.”

Sansa’s a beautiful, struggling young woman, but still her baby girl.

She hears the ding of the elevator and the hum of high voices as the doors open. Osha has finished with the boys and hopefully managed to wake Arya up, although to accomplish that there is usually no small amount of banging on the door, since Arya fights waking up for school like she’s being dragged to an execution. It’s time for breakfast, but Cat’s never poured the eggs in the pan or popped the bread in the toaster, and they’ll be piling into the dining room, waiting to be fed, so they can leave for school on time.

“Darn it.” She presses her hand to her forehead and lets it drop, grabbing for the bowl.

“What can I do?” Jon asks, the scrape of his chair over the hardwood floors nearly obscuring his softly made offer of assistance.

For a moment Cat has the urge to bite back, “You can tell Sansa to go back to school.” Not so much because she thinks Sansa would change her mind for anyone given the tenor of her confession, but because Cat wants to see whether Jon would be willing to let her go. But there are more pressing concerns. Hungry stomachs and a school start time much closer than six weeks away.

“The toast, please. The toast would be a big help.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon's POV is up next. It will conclude the mini arc. I hope to have it up in a few days!


	17. Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon takes Sansa to The Wall for her twenty-first birthday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The inspiration for Sansa’s [look is here](http://justadram.tumblr.com/post/69392405362/sansas-birthday-dress-more-ignore-the), and the Stark townhouse’s [entry hall](http://justadram.tumblr.com/post/69413509227/and-its-the-stark-entry-hall-because-because-i). And in case you’ve forgotten the inspiration for the handsome devil that is Theon Greyjoy, [refresh yourself](http://justadram.tumblr.com/post/50666160738/a-city-of-fortune-and-failure-fancast-for-the).

Chapter Sixteen: Jon

He’s probably running a few minutes late, which is why she comes knocking, when he’s still in the bathroom in his dress slacks, leaning against the sink, while he fills the basin with warm water. Sansa’s always on time and the Army drilled punctuality into him as well, but nerves have him moving a little slower than usual. He has to keep it together tonight. She’s counting on him, and he wants her to be happy, to forget about school and Joffrey and everything else for just one night.

“Come in.” He has to shout, because there are two doors between them.

As he smoothes lather over his cheeks, he can hear her moving around in his room, probably looking at the suit coat and freshly starched white shirt laid out on his bed, which she’d picked out earlier. She wasn’t particularly happy with his selection of shoes, but ultimately found a pair that didn’t make her wrinkle her nose.

“What are you doing?” she calls through the door, and then immediately laughs, “Sorry. Forget I asked that.”

But he’s not doing anything embarrassing, despite having the door shut. “Shaving.”

“Are you decent?”

Do pants count as decent around Sansa? He didn’t want to drip on his shirt or get his collar wet, but a hand towel slung over his shoulder isn’t exactly evening attire. “Mostly.”

The door opens only wide enough to admit a hand, which slips through and waves, an action he catches in the reflection of the small, square mirror.

“Hey.”

“Hi. Can I watch?”

He freezes, razor in hand. “What?”

The door squeaks as it opens wider and her smile appears in the mirror. “Can I watch you shave?”

Her eyes sparkle with amusement or excitement or some other emotion, lighting her from within. He sees that much before he looks down, shaking his razor in the water to wash the foam off from his first swipe of the blade. The uptick of his heart seems to conflict with his previous assessment of the situation. Something about this scenario is distinctly embarrassing, and there was good reason to have that bathroom door closed.

But he has trouble saying no to her, which is why sometimes he just has to hide before he says yes one too many times.

“If you want.”

She clambers up to sit atop the tank of the toilet, and when she teeters on her impossibly high black heels, he reaches across his body with his left hand to steady her.

“Thanks.”

“Can’t have the birthday girl injuring herself before we even leave the house.”

“That would be tragic,” she agrees, with her knees pressed together and her toes pointing in towards each other on the seat of the toilet.

He looks away, focusing on his own reflection in the mirror, as he brings the razor up to his face. There’s never been a girl in his bathroom, unless you counted the cleaning lady that came on Wednesdays. There’s barely room for two people at all inside of Jon’s bathroom. It was only a half bath, when his bedroom was the Stark’s home theater. When he moved in, they knocked out a hallway closet to add in a shower stall, and the result is kind of a tight fit. Feels even tighter with him only in his dress slacks and Sansa watching him intently, as a drip of water runs down his neck to his chest. The rasp of the razor against Jon’s stubble is amplified by the tile walls of the bathroom and by the strange intimacy of the moment.

“There’s something romantic about a man shaving.”

He swallows, the action almost causing him to cut himself, as he drags the razor over the ridge of his jaw.

“Whatever you say.”

She has funny notions sometimes. This must be one of them.

“You should say that more often. Girls love when you agree with them.”

“I’ll take that under advisement.”

She shifts and the hem of her dress slides higher. When she showed him the dress she’d bought a few days ago to wear tonight, he knew he’d be in trouble. It looks like liquid gold. Some primitive, bird like center of his brain that fixates on all things shiny makes him want to reach out and touch it to see if it feels like it looks—cool and slippery. Yes, it’s festive. That’s what she announced, when she pulled it from the bag. Festive in the way she reminds him of a glass ornament ready to be hung on the ten foot Christmas tree standing in the entry hall upstairs. Except sexy. Disturbingly sexy. If she’s trying to look like a woman tonight, and not the little girl who used to flit around to Tchaikovsky’s _The Nutcracker Suite_ in her teddy bear patterned nightgown, it’s working. Too well.

He taps his razor with more force than necessary against the bowl of the sink.

“We’ll uh…we’ll meet Theon at the door.”

“Okay. Sounds good.”

“And your um, your dad’s driver should be ready for us by the time I’m finished.”

“He is. I saw him upstairs.”

“Great,” Jon says, before pulling a face to get his upper lip.

“You know,” she says, tilting her head to the side, making her high ponytail dangle over her shoulder, “we don’t have to stay out too late.”

He swirls the razor in the water, watching the foam drift away. “Already planning an escape?”

“No, I just thought,” she trails off, clicking her heels together like Dorothy. “If you get tired or whatever, you can just tell me and I won't mind. You would tell me, right?”

“You mean if I feel an episode coming on?” It’s a valid concern, one he wishes she didn’t have to worry about. One he wishes he didn’t have to worry about either, but he’s trying to do something about it, rather than letting it control him.

“Well,” she says, wrapping her arms around her middle. “Maybe.”

He pulls his lower lip over his teeth and drags the razor down over the rise of his chin. “I’ll be fine.”

“Okay.”

It’s too bright a response. She doesn’t quite believe him, so he turns his head and actually looks at her with her long, darkened lashes and ruby red lips, when he says, “I’ve been practicing.”

“Practicing?”

“Exposure to crowds.”

It was his counselor’s suggestion, when he mentioned what he wanted to do for Senator Stark’s daughter’s birthday. Exposure therapy is work, his counselor is fond of saying. _Hard work_. More like almost intolerable, but for the past month, he would disappear for half the day, seeking out situations he would normally avoid, and practice all his sensatory techniques for grounding himself in the moment. He made himself stay a little passed the point where he was no longer comfortable every day until he felt pretty confident that he could make it through one night out without an incident.

“And it helped?”

He turns his attention back to the mirror and his half shaved face. “Yep.”

His counselor has been encouraging him for months to do more of that kind of work, but he needed the nudge, someone to want to be better for. He’s not exactly where he wants to be. He still gets jittery and tight feeling, but he feels less like he’s on the knife’s edge. Less like he’s about to tip over into a tunneled assault of sound and light as soon as someone shouts or a tray of plates gets dropped. At least like there’s a better chance he can hold it together.

“ _Jon_. That’s really great.”

Her voice is sincere, warm and gentle like a kiss to an old wound. It doesn’t fix it, but it’s lovely to have someone who wants to make it better. There are precious few people in this world that are as truly kind hearted, as loving as Sansa. He’s lucky, and that’s not something he’s accustomed to. Having that honeyed attention turned on him makes him not know what to do with his hands half the time.

“It’s a work in progress. But I’ll be okay.”

He pulls up the drain stopper and whips the towel off his shoulder to scrub it over his face.

“Nice and smooth?” she asks, hopping down.

There’s no chance to respond, because with the towel still cradled in his hands before his face, she checks for herself, dragging her fingers over his cheek until they curl around his ear. At least she doesn’t see his face turn beet red, as she shimmies passed him in the narrow space, leaving him alone in the bathroom. It gives him a moment to run his hands through his hair, run the water in the sink to get rid of the debris, and shake off the pull low in his stomach.

He’s only gotten himself unwound, when she calls to him from the bedroom. “I may have had the wrong idea about this suit.”

He steps out of the bathroom barefoot onto the carpet, and reaches up to rub his neck. They’ll be late if she wants to go through his closet again, and there’s really not much she didn’t already reject as _all wrong_. There’s also a distinct chance that she’ll start bagging up his clothes for Good Will if she gets another chance to sort through his stuff.

“No good?”

“No, the suit is great. You’ll look great. My taste is impeccable,” she says, winking over her shoulder, as she lifts up his coat. “But you’d probably get more attention going like that,” she says with a nod towards him.

“You’re drunk,” he says, striding forward and grabbing his shirt off the bed, so as to put an end to his half dressed state immediately.

“Right. I had one glass of wine at dinner.”

Served up with a great deal of flourish, as if she’d never tasted alcohol before, a shared conspiracy amongst all the grownups present.

“And it must have gone straight to your head,” he says, shrugging on his shirt.

Her hand stops his, as he moves to the button at his collar, her fingertips trailing against his skin. “No, leave that one undone.”

He turns away from her, his fingers suddenly feeling as thick and useless as sausages. Her hands on his shirt, standing there before him, the bed just a step away… He shakes his head, fighting off the image that creeps over him, an image he can’t afford to indulge.

“It looks better that way.”

He clears his throat. “Go upstairs and get a coat. It’s cold out.”

She pouts, drapes the coat over the bed, and flounces from the room with a little less dignity than her dress demands. She definitely needs a coat. She’s got legs for miles and no sleeves and her dress dips down, exposing her back in a v that begs to be touched, for a hand to rest there beneath her shoulder blades.

He doesn’t put his hand there. He’s very careful _not_ to put his hand there, when they climb in and out of the backseat of Ned’s black sedan limo, offering her his hand instead, so she doesn’t slip on the snow slicked sidewalks, and then again when they approach the entrance to The Wall, guarded by men dressed all in black. Theon, however, boldly finds a home for his hand against her body the moment they’re inside the club and Jon’s busy giving the coat check woman Sansa’s black coat.

“Hey there, beautiful,” Theon says, pulling her into his side and pressing a kiss to her cheek. “Don’t you just get prettier and prettier?”

Jon hasn’t actually told Sansa she’s beautiful tonight. Of course she is—stunningly so—and it’s been on the tip of his tongue half a dozen times, but because he’s having trouble thinking about anything except how beautiful she is, he didn’t think he should _say_ it and risk his voice betraying all the rest. But now he wishes he had, as she smiles back at Theon and kisses him on his cheek, thanking him. She deserves to be told she’s beautiful, but Jon could have said it first.

 _Fuck_.

“Theon. Your hair is different,” she says, reaching up to ruffle Theon’s hair.

The chlorine of the pool always did a number on Theon’s dark hair, bleaching it of color and making it roughly the consistency of straw, but his varsity swimming days are behind him even if he’s still got the lean, tall build of a sprinter.

“So is yours.”

Sansa pulls her hand down the length of her ponytail and whips it back over her shoulder. “Well, it’s been forever.”

“Too long, honey. You ready to get fucked up?”

“Hey, watch your language.”

Theon snorts and Sansa turns a smile on Jon that he can’t quite interpret. “I’m not seven anymore, you know.”

It’s a gut reaction to protect her from ugliness, something he can’t entirely rein in, as ridiculous as his overzealous correction of Theon’s profanity might be.

“I know.” He is every bit aware of how old she is. Especially tonight.

“How could we not, birthday girl?” Theon asks with a waggle of his brows before turning to Jon. “How you doing, man?” he asks, slapping him on the back.

“Good.”

“Me too, except I’m thirsty. Twenty-one,” Theon crows. “Let’s get you a drink.”

“Jon’s going to buy me my first drink,” she says, her hand closing around his bicep. “Aren’t you, Jon?”

“Yes.” That’s what he wants—to be the first man to buy her a legal drink. That’s perfectly harmless, nothing that would distress her mother or her father or anyone else. Perfectly normal.

The club is about what he expected. Flashing lights illuminating the darkness, thumping music that he doesn’t recognize, and the press of attractive people all around them, which makes getting to the bar something of an adventure with Sansa’s hand holding tight to him sometimes the only thing that keeps them from being separated. But when they do slip in close to the bar and Jon makes good on his promise, ordering them all a round of drinks, Sansa’s comes back pink and girly. It’s called a Frozen Candy Cane. Living up to its name, it’s sugary sweet, which he knows for a fact, since she insists he take a sip after she tries it first. He wouldn’t order one for himself, but he hums agreement, when she leans in close to ask, “Isn’t it delicious?”

Everything is Frozen Something tonight in honor of the season, but Theon drinks martinis and Jon would rather stick with whiskey if he can’t have a beer, so they both fail miserably at joining in the wintery festiveness The Wall works to achieve. Their second round of drinks is more of the same, including some different but no doubt equally sugary pinkness for Sansa. It’s when Theon disappears to fetch that second round that Sansa slips her hand into Jon’s.

“Have you had enough to drink?” she asks, threading their fingers together, so he can feel the press of the chunky ring she wears on her middle finger. “Enough that you’ll dance with me?”

He’s a terrible dancer. A really awful, terrible dancer. He can’t do much more than rock back and forth like a middle school kid at a bad mixer and there’s no telling whether he can do that much in time with the beat. She _knows_ this. She tried to teach him when he was a senior in high school and home over break, dreading an upcoming dance. She ended up assuring him that not every girl wanted to dance, which was about as much discouragement as Sansa was capable of. She wasn’t wrong though—there are girls that really don’t want to dance—but this one does and all he wants is for her to be happy.

But he’s not completely at ease as it is, here with these people, in this place, with her biting the corner of her lip, a teasing shock of white against red. And he’d have to touch her. He wouldn’t know where to put his hands. Her hip. Or her waist. Or her back over that naked expanse of skin. He never can seem to figure out what to do with his damn hands.

“Please?”

“What’s this?” Theon asks, as he reappears at Sansa’s side and slides the whiskey across the high round, black table they’ve claimed as their spot, a spot where up until this point Jon felt mostly at ease just talking and people watching.

“I want to dance,” Sansa says, squeezing Jon’s hand and holding his gaze, and that sparkle is there again, the one from the bathroom, and he’s going to ruin everything by telling her no.

“Course you want to dance,” Theon agrees in the casual way Jon wishes he could adopt.

“Jon?” Her voice is already taking on that edge, the one she gets when he’s closing down. It must be all over his face, incipient disaster.

“Jon’s been holding up walls for years. He’s never going to dance,” Theon says, taking a sip from his martini. “Doesn’t mean we shouldn’t.”

“Well,” she hedges, her eyes cutting from Theon back to him.

“Jon will watch our drinks. Won’t you?” There’s Theon’s hand again, on her back, nudging her away from Jon, making their hands stretch out between them, as she’s pulled towards the floor. “Come on, beautiful.”

He can’t hear her say his name, as their fingertips break contact, but he can read it on her lips. He motions for her to go. Better that she goes with Theon. Better he not even try to navigate that dance floor, which looks as dangerous as an unswept mine field flashing with mental triggers. She’ll have fun. It’ll be good. Uncomplicated.

It doesn’t take long for him to selfishly regret his wordless, silent stupidity, sending her off to dance with Theon, as he stands by the bar height table and sourly nurses his drink, watching them through gaps in the crowd that open and close, as bodies come together and move apart in time with the music. He shifts on his feet in his uncomfortable shoes, looks up and down from his whiskey, and nervously fidgets, messing with his hair, while the minutes drag on. The music is God awful. The drinks are too expensive. And Theon seems to suffer from a total lack of indecision as to where to put his damn hands.

But being pissed about it isn’t fair and he knows it. Theon leans in to whisper in her ear and Jon can see her laugh, her head tipping back, exposing the arch of her neck, and that’s the way it’s supposed to be. This is supposed to be a night where she can let loose and have fun and laugh, and it doesn’t matter who it’s with.

He finds himself missing Sam. With Sam he’d have someone else to talk to. Or to awkwardly watch other people successfully socializing with minimal effort. Sam would have to have a girlfriend and plans.

Jon’s not completely solitary. They come back. It’s just that the party is moving on without him in the same way life has been. With every break the two of them take from dancing, each visit back to his lonely perch, each new round of drinks, her eyes are a little glassier, her words a little less clearly enunciated, her laugh a little louder, and although she leans into Jon, slipping her arm around his back and pinching his side, eventually she’s back on the dance floor with Theon. Closer. And all Jon can think about is Theon’s filthy locker room talk, when they were in school together and how he’d brag about the girls he cajoled into sleeping with him by telling them who his father was. Jon’s not sure which is worse: losing sight of her in the crowd over and over again until his hands are slicked with sweat, because it triggers his team member training, where keeping eyes on your team is a matter of life and death, or when she comes into sight with Theon’s arm around her waist and his stomach clenches.

Jon feels his grip on himself slipping away, his vision narrowing in unless he works to blink it back and count heads and crunch ice with his back molars. He’s lost count again—it’s really fucking hard to count heads in this swaying swarm of people—and is about ready to start again, when someone claps him on the shoulder.

“Come get another round with me,” Theon says, brushing back a slightly sweaty lank of hair.

Jon looks to Theon’s left and right, because they’ve always come back together, the pair of them, to joke with him and get new drinks, but she’s definitely not here. “Where’d Sansa go?”

“I don’t know. To powder her nose or something. I don’t like to think too much about it. Come on,” he says, waving Jon towards the bar.

With no one else to go with her, Jon would have waited outside the restrooms for her, but Theon obviously is not as paranoid as Jon is about safety. She’s already alone. The best Jon can do is try to watch and see when she emerges and then keep his eyes trained on her, as she makes her way back to them through the throng of people.

This isn’t Afghanistan. It’s worth reminding himself.

“You want another, man?”

“No. I’m done for the night.” He promised Catelyn. That and his hard earned coping skills will go right out the window if he gets too intoxicated. The last thing he wants to do is embarrass Sansa or spoil her fun by ending their evening prematurely.

“Suit yourself.”

Theon leans across the bar and fiddles with his wallet. It’s obviously new and tight and he can barely get his credit card out to pay. It’s petty, but Jon turns his head to fight a smile.

When the wallet’s tucked back away, he turns to Jon, one elbow on the bar. “Goddamn she’s hot. When did she get so hot?”

That kills his amusement at Theon’s minor struggle quickly enough.

Theon grabs his martini off the bar, pulls out the skewer and removes the olive with his teeth, chomping on the left side of his mouth. “I mean, she always was pretty, but damn son.”

“Don’t even think about it.”

“Why’s that? Boyfriend?” Theon smirks. “Never stopped me.”

There's something about his tone that makes Jon think Theon’s not kidding, bullshitting him for his own amusement. It’s almost impossible for Jon to draw one of his calming breaths, as he crosses his arms over his chest.

“You know Robb would have killed you for even talking like this.”

The smirk fades from Theon’s face before he turns to face out into the crowd. “Can you not bring that shit up tonight?”

Sometimes Jon forgets that it’s more than just the immediate family that lost Robb. It was always the three of them with Theon slightly ahead of the curve in terms of trouble and girls and sports, leading the way, but it’s never going to feel right again with Robb gone. They don’t really work without Robb’s genial, try anything attitude to bridge the gap between Thoen’s gambles and Jon’s sense of responsibility. They were all like brothers though. Once.

He’d grumble an apology, but he can’t make his mouth work. His jaw’s too tight.

“Aren’t I good enough to be a part of the perfect Stark family?”

“Part of the family?” Jon doesn’t always feel like he’s a proper part of the family, but now Theon wants to lay claim, because he suddenly noticed Sansa has tits? What does he think? That his route to a permanent place at the Stark dinner table is through sleeping with Robb’s sister? “You’ve never had a relationship that lasted more than one night, asshole.”

Theon shrugs. “I keep things casual. For all you know, so does she.”

Casual. The girl who wants nothing more than to have someone love her. Forever.

The adrenaline that rushes through him makes him ball his hands, makes every muscle in his body tighten ready to explode. “Shut up,” Jon spits through gritted teeth.

Theon looks at him like he's grown a second head. “Jesus Christ, man. What’s your problem?”

He can see her, rounding the corner, slipping between people, the gold of her dress catching the lights as she moves in and out of view. She says something to another girl as she moves by, probably begging pardon in a crowd of people that would never think to excuse themselves. “She’s a nice girl.”

“I know she is. I like that about her.”

“And she’s too young for you.”

Jon pushes off from the bar, working his way through the crowd to meet her halfway, shouldering by without any apologies in his rush. His hand catches her elbow, they tip into each other, and she reaches up with her right hand to cup his cheek. She frowns back at him, mimicking his own knitted countenance, only with her long lashes batting against her flushed cheeks, it doesn’t look like much of a scowl. “Oh, you’re just miserable, aren’t you?”

“I’m fine.” Not completely fine, but he's not going to lose it. He won't let that happen. Although he doesn’t know what he intended, charging up to her like this. Maybe to turn her around and lead her right back onto that dance floor. Maybe. He has to do something with the energy boiling inside of him.

“Liar,” she says patting his face and then letting her hand drop. “Just like me. _Fine_. Always fine.”

It’s like something’s slipped in her face, and he rubs his thumb against the soft skin on the inside of her arm, concern dousing the spark of his anger. “Are you okay?”

“In the bathroom, I totally realized I’ve had too much to drink.” Her tongue peeks out of the corner of her mouth. She sways, as if to prove her point, and he grips her tighter. “Let’s go home.”

“You sure? You don’t want to dance anymore?”

She wrinkles her nose. “No.”

 _Fuck_. He has totally impeccable timing.

“Where’s Theon?” she asks, looking off over his shoulder.

“At the bar.”

“Get Theon, I want to go home.”

By the withering look Theon gives them, he’s not exactly ready to call it a night, but he swallows the last of his martini and accepts their offer of a ride home, which makes for a tight fit in the back of the sedan. Until Sansa, who sits straddling the middle, curls into Jon, resting her head on his shoulder, turning her knees into him, and stretching one arm up around his neck. It frees up a little more room for Theon, but isn’t exactly comfortable, not with Theon’s eyes on him. He shifts, wrapping one arm around her, so she doesn’t tip forward as the driver makes a turn.

“She’s drunk,” Jon says by way of explanation, staring straight ahead.

“Uh huh. Whatever, man.”

But she is. Drunk enough that she doesn’t wake when Theon climbs out of the car and a cold blast of air hits them, as he gives Jon a little salute before slamming the door. Drunk enough that’s he’s concerned about whether she can walk under her own power up the steps to the house and through the entry hall into the elevator.

They’re three blocks away when he gives her shoulder a little shake. When she lifts her head, eyes blinking and lips parted in sleepy confusion, he can smell her shampoo, the floral scent heightened by the heat of the club and her dancing. Her body is still warm from it, warm and soft against him. A dangerous part of him wants to tuck her back down against his body for as long as he can, but it would be better if the driver doesn’t witness him trying to wake her up.

“You need to wake up, honey. We’re almost home.”

“We are?” she says on a little grumpy sounding mewl that makes Jon’s face contort in barely suppressed amusement.

“Yeah. Better get up.”

“Shit,” she says, pawing at his chest, as she tries to sit upright. She freezes, covers her mouth as her eyes go wide, and laughs all high and giddy.

Twenty-one and fussing about a curse word. “I won’t tell.”

“Thanks,” she says with a roll of her eyes.

“You think you can walk?”

She sniffs, tilts her head from left to right, her eyes drifting closed, and then shakes herself together. “Yeah.”

She touches her hand to her forehead, eyes squinting shut. Jon knows that gesture. He makes it often enough, when he can feel that little knot developing between his eyebrows like a threatening raincloud. “You’re going to need some water. Tylenol would be good too.”

She moans again and nods her head.

The car slows, and Jon can see the glow of the light over their front door, left on just for them. “Time to try out those legs, Bambi.”

It’s not as bad as he imagined it might be. She’s a little steadier than she was at the end of the night in the club, as he holds onto her hand and they climb the salted steps, and once they’re inside the door and she slips her heels off with a little noise of relief, she walks into the middle of the entry hall without any assistance, her heels clutched tight in one hand.

“I don’t think we should go to sleep yet,” she whispers, as Jon locks the front door behind them.

They didn’t exactly shut down The Wall, but it’s late enough that no one is up to overhear her rather noisy whispers. He could stay up for a while yet, except the idea of being up alone with her when she’s barefoot in that dress and staring back at him glassy eyed seems like an invitation for him to embarrass himself, so he ushers her towards the elevator, hand safely below the v of her dress.

“Your mother doesn’t want us hung over tomorrow, so you need sleep.”

Sansa bops her head from side to side, “And water _and_ Tylenol, yes, yes, I know.”

They don’t have to wait for the elevator, when he presses the button. It’s here where they left it, when they left for the club, when everyone else was already upstairs, getting ready for bed or long ago tucked in. It slides open and she steps halfway through, and Jon’s ready to tell her happy birthday one more time before it slides shut, when she spins around and fixes him with a hooded stare and a little crook lifting the corner of her mouth.

“I’m useless. Come help me upstairs. Find the Tylenol or whatever.” Her hand slips down the door of the elevator as she talks, one painted nail trailing over the metal.

He jabs his hands in his pockets, so she won’t see how they flex. “You’ll manage.”

“Please.”

She stands there with her lip caught between her teeth, hanging onto the elevator door’s entrance, so that it can’t close, and he needs her to go upstairs. Alone. Right now. So he pulls one hand out to give her a nudge, pushing her one step back, sticks his head around the corner, and presses the button for the second floor, lighting it up.

She huffs, as she collapses into the side wall of the elevator, her head resting against its slick, creamy surface. “You’re no fun, Jon.”

He thrusts out one hand, catching the closing elevator door, holding it back, temporarily stopping her disappearance for the night. She’s probably just teasing, taunting him for refusing to stay up with her any longer, but he needs to know. It’s the only thing that matters. “Did you have fun?”

“You’ll never know how much.”

He releases the door. She slowly disappears from view. The elevator dings. He’s left alone. Just the way he wanted.

 _Fuck_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's the mini arc! Hope you all have enjoyed it. I've loved writing it and chatting about it with you all here and on tumblr.
> 
> If you want to watch more awkward flirting, sincere sweetness, and constant denial, be sure to follow [Jon](http://theghostofjonsnow.tumblr.com) and [Sansa](http://makepinklemonade.tumblr.com) on tumblr. You can also follow me! for sneak peeks, inspiration photos, and drabble requests in the A City world. Or we can just fangirl together. I'm up for all of it.
> 
> So, what's coming up next? What will we live for without the mini arc? Why, a Lannister mini arc, of course! Up next is Jaime, Tyrion, and then Cersei. Things start to get a little dicey...


	18. Jaime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime decides to head to Lannisport for the weekend and knows who it is he wants there with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The inspiration for Jaime’s loft is [here](http://justadram.tumblr.com/post/75909610642/lannister-arc-sneak-peek-time-more-the).

Chapter Seventeen: Jaime

Jaime is feeling restless. After a long stretch of holidays, where he couldn’t see Cersei, he is only half himself and needs to do something or go somewhere where he can feel closer to her. They need a weekend to themselves, where they can fuck and not say one lousy word about Robert or those goddamn Starks she won’t stop going on about anytime he manages to get her on the phone. This entire situation has left him exasperated.

_Who the shit cares about the Starks?_

_I do. You should too. This is important. You promised, Jaime._

Only, he didn’t promise to care, in a post sex haze he promised to do whatever she wanted him to do, so he would remain the one she goes to for the important things, the one she counts on, her other half. Being away from her, he doesn’t see how either of them can be themselves, be happy, be anything other than empty. Saying snide things about the Starks whenever it comes to his mind that he’s supposed to be ruining them doesn’t exactly keep him warm at night. But that is his assignment, and it seems like it is the only thing that matters to her at the moment.

The coffee maker beeps, flashing its blue light as he walks into the kitchen, the heels of his shoes echoing against the pale hardwood underfoot. He reaches for a mug. They’re all the same, shiny and white and not quite the size he’d prefer if he was picking out mugs, since the size of them requires he refill too many times to properly caffeinate every morning. But he didn’t pick these out. They were selected by his overpriced decorator, who chose his little used matching dinnerware and everything else in this echoing space. The lack of a personal touch lends a somewhat cold, impersonal air to his Chelsea loft, which is already too big to ever feel what one would call homey, but that suits him fine. The house he grew up in was cold and imposing too. Anything else would feel cloying.

Filling the cup up to the rim, he digs in his pocket for his phone and pulls up Cersei’s spot in his favorites list before ambling to his sofa. One handed, he selects ‘call’ and brings the phone up to his ear. He’s mid sip when she answers, an annoyed edge to her ‘hello’ infuriatingly evident.

He grins against the phone, attempting not to let his responding irritation bleed through, when he says, “Cersei.”

“I’m busy, Jaime. What do you need?”

“You,” he says rather blandly, as he takes another sip of his bitter, black coffee.

Cersei hums, and he almost thinks she’s considering it until she spoils the moment. “I’m too busy today.”

He stretches his arm out to set his mug on low wooden table before him. “Too busy for me? Ouch. That hurts, sweetheart.”

“You’ll live.”

“I’m only thinking of you. You need a vacation,” he says, leaning back into the couch and crossing one leg over the other.

“I always need a vacation. I just don’t have time for one.”

“I think the only solution is to make time.”

“Mothers can’t just run away.”

He’s heard something along those lines from her more than once, but it never fails to baffle him. “You’re not just a mother.” Despite what she might insist on believing. Once she belonged only to him, but long before Robert came on the scene, motherhood made her less and less his. He can’t help but resent that.

“Jaime, I wasn’t kidding, I’m busy, so you need to get to the point.”

There’s rustling on the line like she’s adjusting the phone against her ear, maybe switching ears, while keeping her hands busy. He glances over at the numberless, stainless steel clock hanging on the otherwise blank wall ahead of him and guesses that she’s probably getting Tommen ready for school. Or not. For all he knows, the kid was packed off for school an hour ago. He’s not really sure when preschoolers leave the house, despite having lived with one once upon a time. Regardless, with their chubby cheeked youngest safely ensconced in school, she should have some time to herself. How hard would it be to make arrangements for Tommen after school lets out?

“Come to Lannisport with me.”

He only came up with the plan this morning as his alarm went off and he reached over to blindly shut it off. Staring up at the ceiling with the grey of the morning bleeding through the blinds, it seemed a much better plan than going into the office on this cold Friday.

“Lannisport?” she says on a breathy laugh. “It’s what…ten degrees out? That sounds rather bleak.”

He grew up vacationing in Lannisport, a small, exclusive escape for the wealthy in easy distance of the city. Of course, she’s not wrong that their family home on the water isn’t really someplace you’d think to go except during the summer season. But thinking about Cersei, while he was alone in his bed, Lannisport was the place that came to mind as where he’d like to be most of all. With no one else crazy enough to go there in the middle of winter, they’d at least know their rendezvous likely would go completely unobserved. And they have a shared history there. There isn’t a room in that sprawling house they haven’t fucked. Myrcella was conceived there. Or so Cersei used to say. He never bothered to keep track of such things.

“You know, I resent that. Isn’t my company enough for you?”

“I hate being cold.”

Jaime isn’t much for the cold either. They’re both more of the sun and sand type. A day spent lounging and swimming in the sea is preferable to anything winter has to offer in terms of relaxation or sport, but he’s a little short on options at the moment.

“Inside the temperature won’t matter.” Inside. In bed with her long legs wrapped around his waist. He rubs his hand over the velvet cushion, thinking of how soft her skin always feels once he’s stripped off her clothes. He hasn’t gotten to see or touch those legs bare to the waist in months. “It’s just a place to get away on a minute’s notice. It’s been too long, Cersei.” When the weeks stretch into months like this, some essential part of him gets harder to grasp.

“The problem is the minute’s notice part. I’ve got responsibilities. I miss you, but I can’t just dash off with you on a whim.”

He frowns, reaching for his coffee again. “Bring Tommen.” It’s not what he had in mind and it’s only a guess that it’s concern over their youngest that has her hesitating on whether to join him, but it’s probably a good guess. The needs of the children often keep them apart, although Cersei doesn’t view it in those precise terms.

She laughs, but it isn’t a sound that makes him smile. He can picture the look of scorn he’s too familiar with turning down the corners of her red lips. “That wouldn’t look funny at all. He’s not an infant if you haven’t noticed. He would tell.”

Too damn bad too, because it was easier when Tommen couldn’t talk and could be entertained for a good long while with his stuffed cat, so the grownups could have time to themselves.

“And you do know it’s your weekend with your daughter, don’t you?”

No, he doesn't, not until she says it. It’s probably in his calendar, but he hasn’t looked at it in a while, since it says the same thing day in and day out. “Bring her then for a weekend with her father. Hardly anything unseemly about that.”

“Robert might think so if I’m along, but you’re welcome to take Myrcella on this ill-timed jaunt.”

“Fuck Robert.”

“That’s what I thought. I’ve got to go, but you need to text me if you’re going through with this idiot plan, so Myrcella doesn’t end up sitting around waiting for you to show up.”

Cersei doesn’t say goodbye. There’s just an icy silence alerting him to the fact that she hung up.

He leans forward with a huff, setting his coffee down on the table before coming to his feet and thumbing through his favorites list again to find Tyrion’s number. He presses call and stalks towards his bedroom with a bristling, irritated energy that makes his shoulders stiff and his feet fall heavily in something approaching a stomp.

He needs to pack. He’s going to Lannisport, whether Cersei refuses to come or not, because he needs some kind of purpose. His brother might as well come with him. He’s got fond memories of screwing around with his little brother there too, and they don’t do nearly enough together these days.

His brother’s greeting is a question, “Are you calling in sick?”

“Yes, and so are you.”

“Too late for that, I’m afraid. Nothing short of the plague would lay me low that quickly. I’ve been here for almost an hour.”

He pulls open his closet and strides inside with furious purpose he once more attempts to soften with a grin that no one can see. “That’s an hour too long. We’re getting out of this city.”

“Have I won a trip to Disney World?”

“No.”

“Good the prospect is absolutely revolting. Where then are you proposing we play hooky?”

“Lannisport. You and me for the weekend, little brother.”

Jaime walks through his closet with one hand on his hip, surveying the array of suits that he won’t need in Lannisport, shut inside from the cold with the furnace cranked up and the fireplace in the great room blazing. A couple of sweaters and pair of jeans are about all he’d need.

“Sounds cozy, but that’s not going to work. I have meetings scheduled all day. You know how it is. They actually expect me to do work around here.”

“Cancel your meetings. The company will survive it and I guarantee you won’t be fired.”

“You overestimate father’s fondness for me. He probably would welcome a chance to can me. Besides, someone has to be here while you goof around.”

Jaime runs his hand through his hair with his free hand, staring down at his feet in frustration he is barely able to keep from escaping in a low growl. “I’m asking you to come goof around with me like we used to. You’re too young to be so sickeningly responsible.”

“Actually, even if I could, Shae will be furious if I ditch her this weekend for a boys’ trip. I’m supposed to take her out. She bought a new dress. Or I bought her a new dress I guess would be more accurate.”

Jaime rolls his eyes and taps his foot on the floor. “You let Shae set your social calendar?”

“Yes. I’m ugly, not stupid. You hardly do any different when it comes to Cersei.”

It might be true, but he ignores his brother's jab. “Bring Shae along.”

It’s a last ditch attempt, as much as telling Cersei to bring the kids was. He’s not entirely familiar with Tyrion’s girlfriend, but he doubts he’d like her more than he likes Tommen, who’s actually a pretty sweet little kid, who likes fairy tale stories and animals and rarely gets fussy. While Shae would only be in the way. insisting on his brother’s attention constantly. That’s generally how he feels about her, which is why he hasn’t bothered to get to know her. What he knows is that Tyrion hasn’t had the nerve to introduce her to their father, but she’s still the recipient of more than nights out and slinky new dresses. Jaime’s pretty sure she’s got an apartment in Brooklyn his brother bought for her. Who knows what else he’s given her and with what kind of hefty price tag attached. Whatever their arrangement, it’s no skin off his nose, but Jaime doesn’t particularly relish the idea of spending the weekend with the two of them playing at love birds. Still, he’s on the verge of feeling desperate. He’s not good at being alone.

Jaime can hear Tyrion’s office phone ringing in the background, as he says, “A romantic weekend away with me and my big brother and my girlfriend. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were proposing something both illegal and indecent.”

“Hardly. She isn’t my type.” She’s pretty, but the complete opposite of Cersei. Short, dark hair, dark eyes. “And anyway, I wouldn’t sell it to her that way if I were you. Might spook her. Use that brain of yours to concoct something convincing.”

“I’m pretty sure going to Lannisport in February would not be Shae’s idea of a good time, no matter what kind of spin I put on it. She’s not stupid either.”

If all else fails, Jaime could ask what his brother and his girlfriend are doing this weekend, so he might join them here in the city to fill up his empty hours, and even if his brother doesn’t want him playing third wheel, he could dredge up something else to do, but that’s how he’s spent the past four weekends and he’s sick of it.

“Well, little brother, I'm sorry to hear it. You’re missing out.”

“I’m sure I am. You’ll have to give me a full account of the weekend’s festivities whenever you decide to grace us with your presence again.”

“Monday.” Alone any longer in Lannisport and he’s liable to lose his mind.

“Unless Lannisport is particularly delightful.”

“Right.”

They exchange halfhearted goodbyes, as he pulls two sweaters from his shelves, where they are folded in color coded stacks two high, and then tucks his phone back away with no one else left to call.

He doesn’t end up packing anything particularly suitable for winter storm conditions, because he doesn’t take the time to look out his floor to ceiling windows to see what it looks like outside or flip to the weather app on his phone, two decisions he instantly regrets when he pulls out of the garage where his sports car was parked into icy conditions that slick the road and begin to coat his windshield. He turns on the defrost, considering how many things are about to go wrong due to lack of planning. He really doesn’t have the shoes for snow or ice and the drive won’t be shoveled in Lannisport. Never mind the walks. And as the backend of his car slides wide as he makes a right, he’s reminded how shitty this car is in winter driving conditions. His car is as much a summer person as he is, a fact that normally has no cause to bother him. But this is the only way to get to Lannisport in the offseason, and he’s managed to convince himself that when he gets there he’ll call Cersei, he’ll be more persuasive, and she’ll cave. They’ll have their weekend yet. He just needs to get there.

Which turns out to be easier said than done, as his car slides at each stop and fishtails each time the lights turn green and cab drives blow their horns behind him. He’s muttered ‘fuck’ more times than he can count after just six blocks, when he shifts into second and punches the gas to get the asshole behind him off his damn back. The world turns quickly to the left. Too quickly. He jams his right foot from the gas to the break, slamming down, but the world continues to blur before his eyes. Red, green, black, pavement and cars and buildings smearing through his windshield. There’s a crunch. Back end maybe. Passenger side. His head jerks to the side and he’s thrown back into his seat with enough force to jar his teeth. A second crunch. No way to tell from which direction. The spinning stops as blinding pain rips through his right side. And then it’s nothing but darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am finally feeling more like myself, and I'm also mostly over the cold that's been dragging me down the past couple of weeks, so I'm hoping to get back to regular updates. We've just begun the Lannister arc, which will be continued with POVs from Tyrion and Cersei.
> 
> Want A City updates and sneak peeks? Want to let me in on your head canons? Want to fangirl together? Follow [me](http://www.justadram.tumblr.com) on tumblr.


	19. Tyrion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tywin might have other ideas, but Tyrion isn't going to be a punching bag.

Chapter Eighteen: Tyrion

Being summoned to his father’s office isn’t completely unheard of, although his father generally makes it policy to ignore Tyrion’s existence both at work and outside of it. Though infrequent, he’s familiar enough with these little meetings to thoroughly dread it, and though it’s only thirty minutes after eight in the morning, an hour most people would find too early to indulge, he tosses back a shot of whiskey with a satisfied exhale before making his way down the hallway. Leaving his dark, interior office for the bank of offices that open out onto the view of the city only worthy of Tywin Lannister and his first born, he walks with his head high and his hands swinging at his side. There’s nothing good that could cause his father to beckon him to his office, but he doesn’t have to meet it with an air of defeat. It will be a lecture at best, and a tearing down at worst, but he’s withstood both before and he’ll live through this too, he decides, as he stands before his father’s assistant and clears his throat in attempt to peel her gaze away from her monitor.

“Oh,” she says with a sigh, her pale lips pursing.

Although he can’t imagine the cause, the withering look she gives him makes him think she’s as disappointed in him as his father is. Perhaps it’s catching.

But he’s determined to be cheery with her. It’s the tact he intends on taking with his father as well. They’ve endured enough as a family over the past few days without adding any unnecessary fuel to the fire. Which is why he opens his mouth to say good morning in spite of her frosty attitude, but he’s cut off, as she presses the button on her phone, and announces his presence, speaking almost entirely through her nose.

His father’s voice comes through the speaker without pause, metallic and cold, “Send him in.”

“He’s been waiting for you,” she says, as he straightens his suit coat, which is an odd chastisement, since he’s perfectly on time, but then, perhaps being fifteen minutes early for this little tête-à-tête would have been seen as more ample proof of his filial devotion.

“Thank you,” he says, approaching the door with a deep breath that puffs up his chest in an imitation of the confidence he is determined to carry.

As the door opens, his father glances down the length of his nose at him, one brow arched in simmering irritation. “A little promptness will be necessary from now on, Tyrion.”

Tyrion doesn’t bother to correct him, though a devilish part of him has to urge to hold out his watch to show him just how prompt he is before climbing into the chair opposite his father. Instead, he settles himself in the seat and folds his hands, letting his eyes scan the room. Other than the view, there’s nothing really to recommend his father’s office. No well outfitted bar to numb the monotony. No comfortable sofa on which to take an impromptu afternoon nap. Nothing of note. It’s a picture of sterility and uninterrupted slate grey bedecking the walls, upholstery, and rug that anchors the room. A total waste of prime real estate. At least Jaime’s office, while not put to good use, is a pleasant enough place to spend an hour.

“Morning, father.”

“What’s left of it. This isn’t a social call, we have serious things to discuss this morning.”

No surprise there. Tyrion can’t remember them ever having a casual discussion. “I’m ready for it. You have my undivided attention.”

“Good,” his father says, moving a stack of papers to the corner of his desk. “I’m going to need to rely on you with your brother in the hospital.” It is a rather euphemistic way to refer to what happened to Jaime, but pretending as if his brother has not lost his right hand in the car accident seems to be the unspoken rule amongst the family. “We don’t know how long he’ll be indisposed.”

“Hopefully not long.”

While he sincerely hopes Jaime makes a swift recovery, he hardly thinks he’ll be growing his hand back. Tyrion wouldn’t be surprised if that was their father’s expectation, however. He never got over Jaime’s career ending injury, after all. It was like a personal affront, a rejection of some birthright given to him not by God but the Lannister family genes. He can remember being told over dinner as a child, _Your brother’s talent has now been completely wasted._ Even then Tyrion could see Jaime didn’t really have a choice in the matter, no more than he does now.

Tyrion meant to express concern for his brother in wishing him back to work soon. He needs something to distract his mind, a fact that’s abundantly clear, since every time he visits his brother, Jaime will hardly even speak, but his father’s tone, when he echoes back, “Hopefully,” makes it clear that he is more concerned with having to rely on Tyrion than he is his eldest’s health.

Tyrion forces a grin. “What exactly do you need me to do then with Jaime out of commission?”

He honestly can’t guess what his father means for him to do that is any different from what he’s already been doing without fanfare. Jaime hasn’t ever pulled his weight at Lannister Mercantile, and Tyrion’s been successfully running several key departments without much interference for some time now. It’s a commonly recognized fact that the departments under his control have never run so well. Recognized by all but the family.

“I can’t see to everything, since I must personally devote myself to our most important investments.”

Like the Baratheon mess, Tyrion suspects. He’ll gladly leave that cancerous mass to someone else. “That’s understandable.”

“Good. I’m glad you understand. I’ve had my assistant make a list for you of some of the responsibilities you’ll be taking over. She’ll give you a copy when we’re finished here.”

“A list.” There was something slightly dismissive about his father’s statement and the sharp nod of his head, but Tyrion has no intention of ending their discussion with so little actual discussion. He’s not some cog in lower management. He shifts in his chair, leaning slightly into the side. “Is this a substantial list?”

“Yes it’s substantial,” his father says with a frown. “What I don’t need you to handle for the time being would be a much shorter list. Do you mean to tell me you can’t handle the responsibility?”

“Not at all. I’ll be happy to take on the responsibility. Glad to prove my worth.” As if he hasn’t amply done so already.

His father drums his fingers on the desk twice, watching him with an air of frank appraisal. “We’ll see.”

“Yes, I believe we will,” Tyrion agrees, and he can see that his words have irritated his father by the deepening of the line in his father’s brow in otherwise seemingly timeless face.

If his father ever smiled, his face might be more lined, but that’s never been a problem from Tywin Lannister. He won’t be starting today: what Tyrion has to say next is not likely to make his father crack a smile. Tyrion has slaved for Lannister Mercantile without any kind of proper recognition for far too long, but now his father has a pressing reason to notice what his son’s contributions are and that realization should come with a reward.

“But,” Tyrion says, raising his index finger without unfolding his hands, “if this alteration in my position comes with a substantial increase in my responsibilities, a lengthy new list as it were, it occurs to me that it should also come with a substantial raise.”

“A raise? Can’t pay your bills?”

Just a few calmly delivered words, but it’s as good as being slapped. “That’s not the issue.”

“I’m unconvinced. The fact that you waste money doesn’t escape my notice. I’m aware of what you spend and exactly on whom you spend it.”

 _Tawdry_ _women_ is the unspoken addendum to that little statement, a judgment he’s heard passed on previous women in his life. While he objects to the descriptor, Tyrion can’t deny that he spends liberally on Shae, but that’s not the reason he seeks to be rewarded for his work. He can afford Shae and his lifestyle on the salary he has now. He can afford the apartment, the clothing, the jewelry, vacations, and whatever else he needs to spend to keep her happy, but that’s not the point.

“How I spend my money isn’t really up for discussion.”

“None of this is up for discussion.”

Tyrion continues, despite his father’s remark, sitting slightly forward, as he speaks, “While we’re discussing terms, I also wouldn’t mind a more suitable title. Something with a nice ring to it. I’ll also happily accept a better office. One that doesn’t scream, Tyrion, cleaner up of other people’s trash, the way my current one does.”

“It was a serviceable enough office when it was given to you. What’s happened to it since is wholly your affair.”

Tyrion works the muscles in his jaw, attempting not to curse his father.

“What exactly _are_ you offering me?” he finally manages to ask, as his father glances over his son’s shoulder at the ticking clock that hangs on the wall.

The message is received: I'm tired of this, you're wasting my time.

“I thought I’d made it abundantly clear that this is a temporary situation. Your brother will be back in due time. There will be no changes necessary in our arrangement here.”

Nothing. He’s being offered nothing. It’s only slightly less than he’s reluctantly ever been given. “Jaime might be back in a month bright eyed and bushy tailed, but I assure you, my contributions are every bit as important as his are, more so if you’d care to take notice, and our compensation has never been commensurate. That needs to end. You need me. We are both your sons, and this company bears the stamp of my name as much as it does yours or his. My salary and my position here should reflect that.”

“It’s completely out of the question.”

Any attempt to keep his cool has long since passed in a rush of adrenaline, and Tyrion can feel his face growing hot and his chest rising and falling with increased rapidity at the self control it takes to keep from shouting. “Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“These aren’t unreasonable demands, you know.”

“That depends on which side of the table you’re sitting on. From where I’m sitting it’s clear that you should be doing this for the family, Tyrion, not for your own selfish gain, counting pennies like a miser. You’ve never understood the importance of family.”

“No, I do understand, I assure you, which is why I’ve been here toiling away for as long as I have. Family and God and country or whatever such claptrap we’re to espouse. But I won’t be a sad little punching bag.”

His father turns away, his attention switching to his computer screen with a cool glare. “If you don’t intend on doing right by the family and this company, send my assistant an e-mail alerting her of the fact. We’ll need a few weeks to find your replacement.”

A few weeks to replace his son. The joke of it is, he probably believes he’s generously padded that estimate, given his assessment of Tyrion’s value.

It’s the end of their conversation. There’s to be no real discussion here. He can feel it as surely as if a door has been shut loudly in his face, and when he leaves his father’s office without another word, he’s tempted to slam the door, so that he too can put an exclamation mark on their conversation as handily as his father has. But instead he grits his teeth and makes his way back to his own office with a list of contacts running through his head, people he might call, changes he can make even if his father isn’t willing to play ball.

There is one name prominently playing on the loop in his rage filled inner dialogue: Barristan. One of Lannister Mercantile’s top competitors in the investment business, and a firm that does things rather differently than they do here if the talk he’s heard is to be believed. He could use a change of pace. Maybe it’s time to leave the family business. Find someplace that will recognize what he has to offer. There’s more than one reason to think Barristan might be the man to call, and not only because it would stick in his father’s craw. Stick in it and choke him.

Barristan & Rakharo represents the Targaryen’s interests, a sizable fortune with no small amount of potential to rule New York if Barristan’s niece could be guided into making wiser choices. Viserys is a lost cause, but Dany is merely misguided, deluded by starry eyed youth and misdirected enthusiasm. She only needs a good adviser. Barristan is perfectly capable, except Tyrion knows how familial relations can complicate what should be kept strictly business. She needs an outside viewpoint, someone willing to deliver not only sound advice but tough advice as well.

He can see himself fitting neatly into that role, and she seems like a young woman that would value loyalty and reward it handsomely. An admirable virtue probably not unconnected to her being an orphan. She has had to build her own little community of support, since there’s no way that wayward brother of hers fills any practical gaps in her life. There’s still plenty of room for someone useful to step in and do just that. Someone who happens to have a generous knowledge of other leading families in New York, knowledge that might come in handy in a campaign to conquer this island and beyond. Yes, they could do some good, plenty of it with her resources, and if they stepped on a Lannister or a Baratheon or two while they did it, all the better. There was more than one person that deserved their comeuppance.

He instructs his assistant to hold his calls and makes himself comfortable, pausing only to cast a disparaging eye on every last corner of his half rate office before pulling up his electronic list of contacts on his computer. His hand shakes, as he scrolls, but with anger rather than nerves. There’s been little reason to ever call Barristan & Rakharo, but it’s not a number anyone in business here in New York can afford not to have readily at hand, and he’s certainly not afraid to make use of it. Gumption is not something he lacks.

He dials the number himself, not risking alerting his assistant to the fact that he is contacting a major competitor, since anyone can turn spy and word will spread quickly if his father believes Tyrion truly intends to turn his back on the family. Traitors are not tolerated, no exception for one’s own children. He might arrive tomorrow to find the lock on his office door has been changed. That’s how quickly the tide turns.

He’s put on hold longer than he would normally put up with out of a sense of pride, and he can’t help feeling the slight might be intentional, but maybe Barristan doesn’t play those type of childish games. There’s only one way to find out.

“Barristan Selmy,” a voice finally announces in a deep baritone, as the classical music he’s been endlessly listening to blessedly cuts out.

“Sir, Tyrion Lannister. Thank you for taking my call this morning.”

“Tyrion, what can I do for you?”

“That’s exactly what I’d like to discuss.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Lannister arc continues in the next chapter with Cersei's POV.
> 
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	20. Cersei

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s no doubt in Cersei's mind they’d be better off without Robert, better off with her at the helm. She has more sense than her husband, and if she had a free hand, she wouldn’t make a mess of it the way he has.

Chapter Nineteen: Cersei

The last few weeks have left her nerves strung thin, pulled tight, and fraying. It feels as if Cersei’s world is falling apart. Nothing is as it should be. The things she has always counted on seem suddenly uncertain, and she fears that she stands to lose everything. But she can’t give vent to the impotent frustration she feels over Jaime, can’t even bear to go see him, broken and defeated, so all that is left to her is the crusade to save Baratheon Industries from ruin. A crusade she increasingly feels as if she is waging on her lonesome, since Robert continues to spend his time in various states of inebriation and fucking trashy women, instead of doing anything that might remotely help. Ever since Ned Stark announced he wouldn’t be able to support the Baratheon bid, her husband’s head has been buried deep in the sand over the impending collapse of his own empire, spending lavishly on one extravagance after another as if the money will never run out and endangering them all. If Robert had any musical talent, she might draw a comparison between his blithe disregard for the role he’s playing in their shared disaster and Nero’s serenade over the flames of Rome. But he’s too much of a meathead to be confused with someone who could master an instrument.

“We need this government contract, Robert.”

“I’m aware of that,” he responds, though he doesn’t bother to look up at her from where he sits at the kitchen table, one thick leg extended out as he lounges lazily in the wooden chair.

She can’t fathom why he’s even home, but since she has him here, she’s determined to say her piece. Cersei has never been one to keep quiet.

She shakes a bill from off the top of the pile left unattended to collect in the kitchen—it gets higher every day—and waves it at him like a used handkerchief. “Have you seen these bills? Without that contract, we can’t afford to pay them. It’s not just the company. We could lose the house. What will happen to us then?”

“Calm down.”

She hates when he tells her to calm down in that condescending tone. It makes her anything but calm, but she turns slightly to the side so that he doesn’t see the flare of her nostrils, as she continues, “I’ll calm down when you agree to take control of this situation. Either that or you’ll be the one to explain to Myrcella and Tommen why we’re suddenly living in a fleabag motel room.” He never has much to say to any of the children, so she can only hope that forced, unpleasant, fatherly interaction with them is threat enough to light a fire underneath him.

“For fuck’s sake, Cersei. It’s hardly that dire.”

As if he would know. To say Robert is careless about his finances is generous. He shows a shocking disinterest in his own company, taking it for granted that it will always be there to fund his lifestyle. It’s almost as if he thinks that the hard work ended the day he opened the doors of Baratheon Industries and strolled into his plush office, putting an end to the struggle to end up on top, when it was really just beginning. He cavalierly leaves the management of his finances to a cabal of men, who are either incompetent, sycophants, or hogtied by Robert’s inability to curb his spending. Sometimes she feels like the only person in the world who ever says no to him, and he has yet to thank her for it.

“You don’t want to hear it, but it’s serious,” she says, replacing the bill on the stack with a flick of her wrist.

“Those Lannister assholes have always come in handy in a pinch. You’ll go to them for more money if money’s what we need.”

Lannister pockets run deep. Deeper than Baratheon resources could ever hope to go, despite their lucrative share in the arms industry. The Baratheons are veritable newcomers to the world of high rollers, whereas the Lannisters have generations of wealth, enough to paper the walls of their homes with bills featuring America’s favorite inventor and Founding Father, to back them up from here until eternity.

Nothing is truly permanent, however. Cersei worries there is trouble brewing at Lannister Mercantile, trouble that could further endanger Baratheon Industries’ already shaky financial situation. First there was the horror of Jaime’s accident, threatening her peace of mind and Tommen’s future, since Jaime is her real tie to that vaunted family, the source of vital financial support that ensures the safety of their younger son’s inheritance. And now she hears rumblings about Tyrion leaving the family firm. Nasty rumors she has no trouble believing. Once upon a time she might have celebrated his departure. After all, he’s never been her ally—if anything he’s been an outright enemy since her divorce and possibly before that—but if he decamps for another firm, they could all be in real trouble. He’s the kind of traitorous, spineless ass that would spill family secrets for his own benefit. He knows too damn much, and she should have never gone to him.

Robert watches her from the kitchen table with a beer in his hand and a glare on his face, daring her to deny the reliance on that family she’s helped foster, when most people would consider a divorce and remarriage more than enough reason to sever ties, but she refuses to wilt under his stare. They’ve needed the Lannisters for years and she’ll never apologize for that. But when you’ve got your back to the wall, she is finding more and more that you can only rely on yourself.

“That contract will save the company and your ass.”

His huge hulking ass. There was a day when he was a big athletic man that you couldn’t help but admire, but there’s nothing but except for his money and power that would attract a woman to him now. It’s a body gone south. Sometimes she fantasizes after a particularly ugly row about getting a call from the manager at their tennis club, telling her that her husband’s had a heart attack on the court, that the EMTs did everything they could, but he’s gone. It would put an end to her troubles. She could play the devastated widow—it wouldn’t be hard, she’s gotten accustomed to faking things—rescue their personal finances, and get the company righted again. There would be no more embarrassing women calling at all hours, no more drunken fights, and no need to spackle on foundation the next day. There’s no doubt in her mind they’d be better off without him, better off with her at the helm of the company. She has more sense than her husband, and if she had a free hand, she wouldn’t make a mess of it the way he has.

The only problem would be the period of Tommen’s minority. The board fawns over Robert’s brother Renly. He’s everyone’s great favorite. Handsome and charismatic, he swans into a room with a smile and a generous laugh, and no one recognizes him for the frivolous fool he really is. She can’t afford to let Renly get his hands on the company. His hooks would sink deep and that wouldn’t bode well for Tommen’s future: she knows he has it out for her boy’s interests. He’s not as harmless as he looks.

Robert tips the beer back, draining whatever is left in the bottle in one deep draw before letting it come back to the table with a hollow bang. “Fine. I’ll discuss it again with Ned the next time he’s in town if you’ll shut up about it for the rest of the night. I’ve had enough for one night.”

Cersei leans her hip into the counter, running her hand over the cool stainless surface until her fingers reach the balloon glass half full of Syrah. It’s her second glass since dinner, but how else is she supposed to make it through dinner with her husband, while pretending not to be thinking about Jaime? They say he’s lost his hand. His right hand. His throwing arm. The one he cups her cheek with, when they kiss, and fists her hair with, when they fuck.

She takes a long sip, breathing through her nose to slow her pounding heart.

“You’ve discussed it with _Senator Stark_ more than once. He’s got someone else in his ear. Someone he’s actually listening to.”

She’s wondered who it was that went to Ned, who told him the tech wasn’t good or wasn’t ready or was a non-starter. Some low down shit from the company? Some disaffected member of Robert’s family? Some jealous club member Robert’s run his mouth with when he was drunk? But now she’s almost certain it was Tyrion. She doesn’t need to proof, doesn’t need Jaime to confirm it. She can feel it in her gut.

Robert heaves a shuddering sigh that ends in a repulsive burp. “He’s always helped me in the past. It’ll work out.”

Magically. It will magically work out. Just like she’ll wake up tomorrow and Jaime will be fine. He’ll be whole and he’ll be there for her and everything will be sunshine and rainbows. If only she could delude herself as easily as Robert does. But she can’t. And the pain is nearly unbearable. For those few hours that she thought she was going to lose Jaime and couldn’t do anything to prevent it, she sat staring at Tommen playing with the cat, hoping she wouldn’t start screaming and never stop.

She stares down into the glass, narrowing her eyes at the inability of this pricey wine to properly numb her as well as it once did.

“Not this time, I’m afraid. He isn’t going to support your bid. Don’t let him make a fool of you. There’s been enough discussion.”

There’s a shift in his face, when she suggests his friend is making a fool of him, as if it’s privately occurred to him that Ned might be doing just that. That while Ned’s saying no to Robert’s request to back his bid, he and Catelyn are snickering behind their hands and behind the closed doors of their Upper East Side townhouse. The image must sting. Robert doesn’t like to be disappointed and he expects a certain amount of capitulation from everyone around him, including his friends.

His next words seem to confirm her suspicions that she’s finally struck a chord, and she bites back a smile as he asks, “What would you have me do instead?”

“You know exactly what I want you to do.” She pauses to take another, larger swallow of wine, savoring it as it slides down her throat. “Force his hand. Either he’ll come to his senses.” Unlikely, given his idiotic sense of honor and duty, she thinks with a roll of her eyes. “Or his political career will meet a sudden, embarrassing end, and their family will make a similar tumble, so we don’t have to see any of their somber faces again. Send them packing back to the great white north. You have the power to do it.”

“Cersei, I’m pissed about this bid business too, but you’re acting like an insufferable bitch. Ned’s career, his family? There’s a line and you’re crossing it.”

“He hasn’t thought about _your_ career or _your_ family, has he?” Cersei says, lifting her index finger from her glass to point at him.

He crosses his arms over his chest. “Ned’s not the man you want him to be.”

Cersei snorts rather inelegantly. Truer words Robert has never spoken, though she knows he means something rather different.

“He’s not conniving.” _Like you_ goes unspoken. Another beer and he’ll say it with plenty of hateful venom.

No, what Ned Stark is is actually much worse. Conniving she could deal with. But he’s the sort of man you can’t really work on, so the only option is to contain him, eliminate him as a player. That’s the real key.

“I agree that his refusal presents a problem for the company, but what you want me to do puts me in a damn awkward position, and after it’s all said and done it won’t help pay the bills.”

But it’ll be satisfying, which is something. And maybe they could benefit from Ned’s fall from power. They could support another candidate, someone easier to manipulate, someone with some self interest they could exploit, someone who will be good for Baratheon fortunes. “It’s for the good of your family. For Tommen. A little discomfort won’t kill you.”

He pushes the bottle away from him on the table. “Ned and I have been best friends for years. You don’t just end something like that over a soured political deal. I don’t want to ruin the man.”

Robert is teetering on the edge of being more than a little pissed with his principled _friend_. She can tell as much by the way that bulging vein in his forehead throbs, as if he’s on the verge of a cardiac event. She needs to press this advantage, play to his vanity.

She twists the glass in her hand, letting the blood red liquid roll. “This is hardly the behavior of a best friend. Whatever he was to you, I don’t think he is anymore.”

Robert shakes his head, ready to deny her claim, but she takes a few steps around the counter, coming to stand before the table he sprawls behind. “If he was your friend, he’d trust you and support your endeavors, whatever they might be.”

“I’m surprised by what’s happened with Ned, but he might only need some time, a little persuasion. He doesn’t know how important this is to me.”

“Time. You’re going to waste more time?” Cersei asks, placing her glass on the table. “You’d happily sit around drinking and gambling away every last penny waiting for Ned to change his mind. That family shouldn’t be allowed to humiliate you.”

“I’m not happy about it,” he says, his hand forming a fist atop the table. “But there are things to consider.”

“Like what?” she asks, propping her hand on her hip.

“Has it occurred to you that his eldest girl is Joffrey’s girlfriend? I don’t see why you’d want me to undermine a family your son stands to marry into.”

She huffs, pulling back the empty chair opposite Robert. “Over my dead body.” She sits and immediately grabs for the wineglass. “There’s not going to be a marriage there.”

“Your son probably has more of a say on the matter than you, Cersei.”

“He’d agree with me.”

“How do you know?”

“They’re not dating. They haven’t been for months.”

“I didn’t know Joff confided in you.”

Not entirely, not since he was very little, but he does tell her things, and what he’s said has only confirmed what the other gossips around town have been pouring into her ear.

“I hardly needed to steal his journal, when everyone knows she’s been all over the city, drinking and dancing with any number of men.”

She raises the glass to her lips and cocks one brow, feeling more than a little bit triumphant that the perfect Stark girl has turned out to be not so very perfect. It irked her how Jaime seemed so eager to play white knight to the girl. Like Sansa was some smooth faced angel in need of rescue. The concern he expressed in his office for her made Cersei stare into the mirror that night and tug at the fine lines at the corner of her eyes, wondering if he would replace her for someone younger, someone who was better at playing the damsel in distress. But she was right: Sansa’s a little tramp, and whatever it is Jaime thinks he saw in that club, their son was not the only one to blame.

“What’s a little dancing?” Robert asks, his sausage fingers drumming a mindless pattern on the table.

“It’s the kind of dancing, Robert. And the amount of drinking. And the number of men.”

“That doesn’t sound much like Sansa. She always seemed like a sweet girl.”

Men only see a pretty face and imagine nothing lies behind it. A pretty face can conceal a great deal. Cersei knows. She’s used that to her advantage as well.

“You don’t know her. It looks as if none of us did. Joff is better off without her.”

Robert frowns. “Maybe she feels the same way. One doesn’t hear the best things about him either, since he’s been uselessly dragging his feet in Boston over the past year.”

Cersei scowls. She will tolerate Robert’s bullshit, but not when it’s directed at her son. Any failings of her son’s are none of his business. It could be the start of an argument if she chose to not let it go, but tonight isn’t the night. He needs to leave thinking about Ned, not about her son.

He balances his weight on his hands, pushing down on the table as he heaves himself out of his chair. “It’s probably nothing more than a little youthful indiscretion on her part. Cutting loose. Kids will be kids.”

Except Cersei thinks it’s more than that. There’s something going on with that girl behind her vacant blue eyes. Something that might prove imminently useful. Even with Robert insisting on waiting and talking with Ned yet again, a tactic that will never reap results, their situation might not be hopeless. Robert might not be ready to act, but they may not need to lift a finger to watch the Stark’s little kingdom come crumbling down. Sansa Stark might do all the heavy lifting for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoyed the timely update. Baby Dram has behaved himself this week, not making me sick and allowing me to write. Hopefully this keeps up! It feels great to be creative again.
> 
> Up next is Ned--it seems like forever since we've heard from Ned!--and then Jaime and Dany. And by now you can probably see how these POVs are finally coming together towards some kind of interrelated crisis. Phew! For all of you reading along for Jon/Sansa, we'll pick back up with that following the Dany chapter, and I think you'll be pleased.
> 
> If you are interested in sneak peeks, inspiration photos, and/or fangirling together, you can find me [here](http://justadram.tumblr.com). My ask box is always open.


	21. Ned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ned dreads Robert's visit.

Chapter Twenty: Ned

The reluctance Ned feels to meet with his friend during his short trip home to the city is not a familiar feeling he associates with Robert, and he regrets not for the first time that their professional relationship has begun to come between their personal one after all these years. He knows Robert will inevitably mention the Baratheon contract, the elephant in the room, and Ned will be forced to yet again state his dissatisfaction with the reports on the technology. His concerns weren’t met with any kind of levelheaded response from Robert the last time they came up, and he doesn’t imagine that will change should the topic be brought up again. He’d much rather spend the day with his wife, who is busy downstairs working on a clothing drive for one of her charities, a project Sansa has been helping her with in the evenings after she gets home from her internship.

It might not be precisely where he’d prefer to be at the moment, but he pulls Robert into a one armed hug and submits to the usual heavy back thumping his friend delivers, as Robert enters his home office and immediately asks what Ned has in the way of something to drink.

“What did you have in mind?”

“Something good and stiff.”

Ned glances at the clock. Only quarter after two in the afternoon. Not typically a time when he grabs for a drink.

“I might have some bourbon tucked away somewhere.”

“That’ll do,” Robert says, easing himself onto the sofa that is hardly ever sat in, although Rickon has been known to jump atop it, when Ned is trying to finish up some work in the evening.

The throw pillows Cat picked out to match the green of the wall paint don’t leave enough room against the back of the sofa for Robert’s ever increasing size, and he pulls one from behind his back and chucks it onto the chair opposite Ned’s desk just as Ned finds the mostly empty bourbon in his crowded shelves out of direct sunlight and pulls out the glass stopper. It’s good bourbon, a gift from a few years back from Rod Cassel. Robert’s office is much better stocked with booze from what Ned’s seen, but Ned has never felt comfortable mixing business with intoxication, unless it was strictly expected of him at the time. Times such as these.

“Best pour one for yourself too,” Robert adds.

“Is it going to be one of those types of talks?” Ned asks, as he grabs for two cut glass tumblers placed on a silver tray beside the small assortment of liquors.

He might not regularly partake, but Cat has the room stocked for such an occasion, just as she sees to all the other little comforts in his life. No one could ask for a better wife.

“It isn’t social to sit there sober as a judge, Ned. Makes a man nervous.”

Ned pours two fingers into one glass, four into the other. Hopefully neither of them will actually need the full pour. Robert seems jovial enough, and while Ned isn’t entirely convinced this is a friendly call, he wants to believe that they’re going to put their recent unpleasantness behind them and get back on solid footing. Ned can’t compromise on the issue of the government bid, but he also doesn’t want to lose his friend.

“Cat looked good,” Robert says, as he reaches for the proffered glass. “Is she doing better?”

Better is relative. Coping is probably a more accurate term for what they’ve all learned to do since Robb’s death, but Ned doesn’t really want to get into the particulars with his friend, not when even the subject of their respective families is suddenly not so safe a topic.

Cat increasingly feels Cersei is working against them here in the city, poisoning the water amongst friends and acquaintances alike, undermining them for some unknown purpose. She got the idea from her sister, Lysa, a woman whose opinion Ned can’t put too much stock in, but Cat seems convinced after more than one heated phone call from her sister on the matter. What is clear is that Ned and Cat are not getting invitations to the places they once were welcome, although he isn’t ready to blame Cersei for it quite yet. So he gives another nod as he pulls his desk chair around to face Robert, the felt circles on the legs muting the sound of wood on tile, and lifts his glass to him in an attempt to end that line of discussion before it starts. They both take a sip—Robert’s decidedly more of a swig.

“And the kids?”

“Good. Busy with their summer activities. You know how that goes.”

He’s been home almost a week and barely sees any of them outside of sitting around the family dinner table, where Arya’s headphones and Bran’s comics have been banished over time with a return to something like normalcy. It’s not a bad thing that they’re busy: Ned’s glad to see it after the quiet desolation that hung over the house this time last year. He only wishes Jon would find something to occupy his time too, but he still spends most of his time in seclusion. It’s good that Sansa has her internship and is so obviously thriving, but without her around, Jon’s spending too much time alone again. Cat seems relieved, but it was nice to see the two of them developing a bond.

“Cersei handles all that.”

Cat handles much of it too, since Ned can’t be home as much as he’d like, being always away in Washington, but Robert’s lack of involvement goes beyond what Ned would consider acceptable in a parent. Robert’s boy needs someone to model himself on, so he doesn’t turn out as badly as that eldest son of Cersei’s. Their daughter has never shared any of the details with either him or Cat, but Sansa breaking up with that insufferable boy was one of the few good things that happened to them last year. She deserves much better. A nice boy would be a good start.

“Speaking of which,” Robert says, pausing to scratch at his beard. “We both know why I’m here. Cersei’s been after me. I told her to mind her own business, but she’s never been any good at that. A right pain in my ass.”

Ned’s face twitches and he shifts in his chair to cover his obvious discomfort. He hates the way Robert speaks about his wife. Ned can only imagine that she’s not the easiest woman to live with, but Robert married her and no one should speak that way about their wife. It is totally disrespectful.

“Actually, you’ll have to fill me in. What can I do for you?”

This could be an opening to speak about whatever it is Cat suspects is going on with Cersei amongst their friends or it could have to do with the government contract. Either way, Ned’s gut clenches at the prospect of speaking about it here in his home, which he likes to keep as free of politics of any kind as possible.

“I’m glad you’ve put it that way. There is something you can do for me. It’s the government contract. We’ve always seen eye to eye on this business, and I’m stumped as to why the hell that’s changed now.”

“It’s as I’ve told you before,” Ned begins, but Robert cuts him off with a swat of his large hand.

“Let’s cut the crap.”

Ned wants to say that he’s been nothing but upfront with his friend already, but instead he sets down the mostly untouched glass of bourbon down on his desk and clears his throat. “Go ahead. Let’s have it out.”

“Cersei thinks you’ve been listening to the wrong people. I’d hate to think that after everything you and I have been through together, you’d do something like that, listen to small minded, jealous assholes.”

Robert would no doubt think Tyrion the worst possible person to discuss his business with, since Robert has little love for the Lannisters, despite the fact that they are major investors in his company and therefore his lifestyle. Ned doesn’t care much for any of them either and it must be unpleasant to always have them hovering around thanks to Cersei’s continued interaction with her ex’s family, but Tyrion was right on this count. That’s what matters.

“Man to man. You’d tell me if that prick, Tyrion Lannister, was whispering bullshit in your ear, wouldn’t you?”

Ned is momentarily struck dumb. Yes, it was Tyrion who initially put the notion in his head that the tech was bad with his well timed phone call, and if rumors are to be believed, Tyrion might have had personal reasons to place that phone call. Still, Ned did his own legwork and came to his own conclusions. It’s not as if he let Tyrion’s opinion determine his course of action. He was determined to be fair about whether or not to support the bid, not only because he didn’t want to do his friend a bad turn, but for the sake of the people he represented too. Anything he supports is equally well vetted. The tech didn’t stack up and he couldn’t in good conscience support the Baratheon bid. It was as simple as that, even if personally inconvenient. Ned isn’t ready to put his friendship with Robert ahead of his principles.

“Cersei swears that’s what’s been going on, Ned. I’ve defended you to her, you know, even though you haven’t stuck by me with this government bid.”

“I did what I had to. I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry? Is that it?”

“I don’t know what else to say,” Ned admits. “It wasn’t meant to be personal.”

Robert makes a grumbling noise as he stares down into his glass. “Don’t be so damned naïve. Business, politics, it’s all personal. I’m just asking you for the chance to set you straight and a little heads up on whether I’ve got a wolf in sheep’s clothing lurking around my business. I’m asking for the truth.”

“You’ve gotten nothing but from me.”

The Lannisters very well might be undermining Robert. Ned hopes for Robert’s sake that’s not the case—he’s as wary of being on the wrong side of the Lannisters as Robert must be—but he has no inside knowledge of it besides the phone call from the youngest member of that family, which could have been an act of altruism for all Ned knows. He’s not going to throw Tyrion under the bus without further indication there was mal intention on his part.

“Faulty tech, bullshit reports, safety concerns,” Robert says, placing one hand on his side. “Does that mean you’re not going to tell me whether or not I need to be worried about these God damned Lannisters? I thought I could count on you.”

“You can, which is why I read the reports. That was more than enough for me to make my recommendation. It wouldn’t look good for your name to be attached to bad technology like that. I know you don’t want that.”

Robert takes another huge swallow of bourbon before gesturing with the glass, thrusting it out in front of him, almost sending the amber liquid sloshing out onto the marble tile floor. “My people assure me that this tech is not only good, but will protect our soldiers’ lives. Just the kind of thing you and I can appreciate, Ned.”

That would be the sort of technology Ned would appreciate and happily support for a government contract. Solid military tech that protects soldiers without endangering innocent civilians is good tech, but the reports didn’t show that kind of potential at all. Quite the opposite.

His hands grip the wooden arms of his chair a little more tightly.“You might be the one listening to the wrong people.” In fact, Ned is almost certain that’s the case. If Robert only knew the truth, he wouldn’t be pushing this tech on Ned or the US government or US troops. He refuses to believe anything else of his friend. Robert’s not the kind of man who would take the possibility of killing innocents lightly. At least, not the Robert he thought he knew. “The reports I read were less than satisfactory, and I’d be happy to discuss it with you if that’s what you want to do. If you knew better what’s going on, you might be able to salvage what you’ve got there and make something truly exceptional from it. We can hammer out a plan together.”

“An afternoon hashing out outdated tech reports isn’t necessary. I have people that take care of those kinds of details. They know what’s best, so I leave it to them.”

“I say this as a friend, Robert. There were things in those documents which indicated a real lack of concern for safety. It all looked rushed, and you know this isn’t the kind of thing you can rush.”

“Don’t bore me with the gory details again. It’s my company, and I’m telling you the technology is ready to go. It’s even further along than it was a few months ago. I’m going to sell this to someone and it should be our government.”

Ned can tell by Robert’s steely glare that he wants Ned to bend, the way he might have done when they were in college together, but this about deciding whether or not they should get another keg of Busch Light for the Saturday night party and Ned finds himself erring on the side of caution, while Robert wants to go big. This is a matter of life and death.

“I don’t think we’re going to see eye to eye on this matter, Robert. It’s probably something we will just need to agree to disagree on, so we can move on. If the tech has improved like you say, we can address the bid again after I get a look at new reports, but that’s all I can offer you.”

It’s disturbing to think Robert is determined to push forward with this subpar, dangerous technology, but Ned can do very little to stop him, when he’s already refused his political support. He can only hope Robert’s trust in his advisors isn’t entirely misplaced and that improvements are truly being made, so that the tech ends up doing no harm in the hands of whoever buys it.

Robert taps his glass on his knee three times, watching him intently. “It wouldn’t just be good for the military. It’d be a good thing for your family too.”

The mention of Ned’s family makes him bristle, and his shoulders straighten in the back of the chair. Why’d Robert have to bring his family up? It smacks too much of a threat with Cat’s warning from earlier echoing in his mind for Ned to let it go without comment.

 _Be careful what you say to him today. Lysa swears they’re after all of us. She got a call from Petyr and he said he heard something about it all the way in Boston. In_ Boston _, Ned. Why would they be talking about us in Boston? Trying to assassinate our characters like that?_

He brushed it off. _Because some people have nothing better to do._ That’s what he’s been doing for weeks, brushing off Lysa’s harried communiqués as the paranoia of an overly active imagination. He urged Cat to go on as if nothing is amiss and wait out this strange lull in their social calendar. He told her to ignore the odd looks she swears she’s been getting at various events. But he could be wrong about it all being a coincidence. There could be more to this, something sinister and deliberate stemming from Cersei and the rejection of the Baratheon bid. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time Cat was right. In which case, he really does need to be mindful of what he says about his family around Robert. The less ammo he unintentionally gives Cersei through Robert, the better.

“Let’s not bring our families into this.”

Even if no threat to his family is intended by Robert’s remark, Ned has never been in politics so as to advance himself. Politics have been good to his family, if you consider life here in the city to be a step up from their quieter life in Michigan, which Ned can’t say he does, but material and social advancement wasn’t why he pursued this life. He views public service as his sworn duty. Always has. The implication that he might support the tech, so as to continue to benefit from the advantages his family currently enjoys doesn’t sit well with him.

“And why is that?” Robert asks, leaning forward to place his glass alongside Ned’s abandoned one. “A rather odd distinction to make, when your decision to withhold your support for the Baratheon bid has affected my family. We needed the money that contract would bring in. Not just the company, my family needed it.”

Ned’s shocked Robert would admit such a thing, but maybe it’s gotten bad enough that he has no choice.

“I’m sorry to hear that, but I’m sure you’ll find other avenues. Baratheon Industries is more than viable.”

“Don’t be smug, dammit. I’m hardly in the mood.”

Ned frowns. Smug isn’t what he’s feeling at all. Cornered in his own home is more like it.

“From what Cersei tells me, you best look to your own family.”

“That’s enough now.”

More than enough to tell him there is something to what Lysa has told Cat.

“I only thought I’d mention it as a friend,” Robert says, pushing to his feet, and his tone, dripping with scorn, betrays how little he thinks of Ned’s own friendly advice, “before I leave.”

And not a minute too soon, since Ned feels as if a few more choice words out of Robert’s mouth and he’d be forced to throw him out. Not a scene he wants to foster in his house. If something is afoot with Cersei, surely that kind of antagonistic gesture would be just the thing to fuel her vendetta.

“You think my company isn’t in order?”

“I don’t know anything about the state of your company. I’ve only said what I felt I needed to about the bid, nothing more.”

Robert stops at the door of the office, spreading his weight over both widespread legs in an imitation of the once youthful, broad power of his body. “People are talking about those perfect kids of yours. Keep your own house in order.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up, Tyrion at Jaime's apartment...


	22. Jaime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion shows up unannounced, and the truth is, Jaime doesn't really care for visitors. Except maybe one.

Chapter Twenty-One: Jaime

The sharp rap at his door prompts Jaime to glance up from his spot on the sofa at clock on the wall to check the time. Just as he thought: it’s too early yet for his appointment with Brienne, his ugly, brute of a therapist, who comes whether he likes it or not. And he doesn’t, since she’ll arrive ready to torture him, ready to insist he work at restoring this joke of a right arm. But not for another half hour or so, which means it has to be somebody else. An unannounced visitor. Joy. It hardly matters who, no one person is more welcome than another, so he calls out that the door is open to whoever has decided to visit his prison cell and cranes his head around to see who might walk through the door. To his surprise, it’s his brother.

“Are you hoping to get robbed, murdered, or both?” Tyrion asks, as he gives the massive metal door a shove with both hands to close it behind him with a reverberating thud.

It’s mid afternoon and his brother is dressed for work—shirt, tie, dress slacks, and a jack slung over one arm. Given the time of day and his stiff attire, he probably came from the office. It’s too early to have already finished a day’s work, although from what Jaime understands, things are hardly what one would call harmonious in his absence at Lannister Mercantile, which might have prompted his brother to play hooky given the chance. Visiting an invalid brother is as good an excuse as any perhaps.

“None of the above. I’m expecting someone.”

He didn’t want to bother getting up to unlock the door when Brienne arrived to do her worst. His legs work perfectly fine, although a few weeks in a hospital bed left him weaker than before, but it seemed easier to just throw back the locks when last he went to the kitchen to freshen up his coffee. He makes lots of shortcuts like that lately. The kind of shortcuts Brienne frowns over. He has a theory that she gets paid by Tarth Therapy per monstrous frown.

“Cersei?” Tyrion asks, tossing his jacket over the arm of the sofa.

With a soft grunt Tyrion pushes himself up on the other end of the sofa, despite the fact that Jaime has not invited him to do so. The sofa is too deep for his brother and his legs stop before the grey velvet cushion ends, but isn’t his short stature that makes the sofa awkward. It happens to be too deep for anyone under six feet tall. Jaime doesn’t mind, since it fits him fine and he has no desire for visitors. No one really needs to see him and his stump in all their glory, not even his brother, who is one of the few people in this world he genuinely loves. Maybe it’s the affection he holds his little brother in working on him, but while he’s not exactly pleased to be walked in on unannounced, he also can’t work up enough energy to actually send his brother on his way.

“I haven’t seen Cersei in months.”

Not since before the accident. She didn’t even bother to visit him when he was in the hospital battered and bruised and totally alone. Still he dreams of her. Long legs, summer tanned skin, blonde hair, and sharp green eyes boring right into him. Every night.

Tyrion hums, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’d consider that a real victory, but I don’t suppose you can bring yourself to look at it that way.”

Jaime gives a slight shrug. It’s a wholly left shouldered affair, since he keeps his right arm cradled against his side in such a way that he doesn’t always have to see the stump, whenever he has the misfortune of glancing down at himself. With it pressed like so, he can pretend his missing hand is still there, tucked inside his pocket.

“If it’s any consolation, she’s preoccupied from what I can tell. Raging about Robert’s non starter of a government contract bid and pouring her venom into the ears of whoever will give her the time of day. That’s got to fill up a lot of hours.”

“Did you have a hand in that?”

“What?” Tyrion asks, raising his brows in mock innocence.

It would surprise Jaime if Tyrion hadn’t pulled the strings in consigning the latest Baratheon technology to the garbage heap. Not only have his brother and Cersei always been at odds, but Tyrion is also one of the few people who was likely to have been given access to the detailed reports on the technology by virtue of his position at Lannister Merc, which was asked to secure further funds for the project. Those reports would no doubt be useful in torpedoing any chance of Baratheon Industries getting the lucrative contract Cersei was so hot to land.

“Made the new tech a non starter,” Jaime says, crossing one ankle over the other, where his legs rest on the coffee table in a space not cluttered by the accumulation of debris gathered during his extended convalescence.

“I might have put in a call to the honorable Senator Stark.”

“Stirring the pot.”

Tyrion tilts his head to the side, as if considering whether that’s in any way a fair assessment of his meddling. “I admit I enjoyed it.”

“Of course you did.”

“But I’d also like to think I saved a lot of innocent lives by blocking that contract. You’d have done the same if you ever bothered to read through the things that come across your desk.”

“Sounds time consuming.”

“And you’ve obviously got such a busy schedule here,” Tyrion says, nodding at the coffee cups and stacked plates that have collected throughout the day. “What with…eating cereal and ordering takeout? You are going to come back to work, aren’t you? This is bordering on pathetic.”

“I haven’t decided. Being a hermit is unexpectedly satisfying.”

At least here in his loft there’s no one to laugh at him, as he fumbles to do the simplest things. He’s wearing his Egyptian cotton pajama pants, not because he spends all day sitting on the sofa—which he does—but because he can’t manage the zipper or button on any of his real pants well enough for it to be anything other than a hassle to do so much as go to the bathroom. Brienne says the expensive new artificial limb he’ll be fitted with in a couple of weeks is going to help with mundane everyday tasks, but Jaime isn’t holding his breath. He’d probably be better off with a hook.

Tyrion snorts. “You’d leave the helm of the company to my questionable leadership? Father will be so disappointed.”

“I doubt that. He already knows what I am.”

And that is not a business man, no matter how much their father wishes he was. Jaime never wanted power. His brother does. Cersei does. But Jaime grew up wanting to be like the heroes on the pages of _Sports Illustrated_. The kind of hero that little boys looked up to, seeking autographs and trading for his cards. He wanted to be famed for his strength and skill on the ball field. Wanted to have his spot in the Hall of Fame alongside Arthur Dayne. As it’s turned out, he’s nothing but fodder for Page Six, a man gifted with all the promise of talent, but no accomplishments worthy of record. The only thing of note about him is that he’s crazy enough to be in love with a woman who left him and can’t be bothered to call, when he lost a hand trying to drive to a rendezvous point he had no hope of getting her to join him at in the middle of a snow storm.

“But you would look so much better on the cover of _Forbes_. Father wouldn’t like to see my ugly mug staring back at him.”

It would be nice if Tyrion was merely being his usual expansive self, but he’s not. Their father would probably rather shutter the company. Although, until Jaime gets his shiny new prosthetic, he thinks his father is rather relieved he’s staying out of sight too. It had to be the best prosthetic, that’s all his father would say on the matter, but he can tell there’s something vaguely embarrassing about the whole situation in his father’s eyes.

“Do they put cripples on the cover of _Forbes_?”

“We’d have to check with the editor, although I don’t think you’re supposed to refer to yourself in such defeatist terms. Bad for recovery.”

“I’m working on it,” Jaime says, toeing at the stack of magazines that have accrued on his coffee table.

Not a single copy of _Forbes_ among them. His reading material is decidedly lighter. Pictures are good.

“Not really politically correct either, cripple,” his brother says, holding up his hands to signify air quotes. “But do as you like. I’ve been told not to allow people to refer to me in politically incorrect terms. Correcting them doesn’t stop them from thinking them though, I can promise you.”

Jaime makes an indistinct noise somewhere between disinterest and agreement, because he’d rather move on and dispense with advice. This a topic he already spends too much time thinking about to want to expend another minute of Tyrion’s visit on it.

“But we are quite the pair, the two of us Lannister boys.”

Jaime clears his throat. “That we are, but I hear rumblings that you’re not long for our family business, which means someone other than either one of us would have the dubious distinction of running Lannister Merc into the ground in our father’s absence.”

“Oh, come on, Jaime. Can’t believe everything you hear.”

“Be straight with me.”

They usually are straight with each other. Usually.

Tyrion reaches up to rub at his nose. He broke it in his twenties in what he swears was a bar fight, although Jaime has never been sure whether that was an elaboration on the truth or not. Tyrion is more of a thinker than a scrapper, happier with his nose in a book than sticking it into the middle of some kind of scrum. Regardless of how he earned the break, it is crooked. Painfully so. Somebody or something really smashed it in.

“I’ve put some feelers out is all. Why, does our dear old dad intend on throwing me out on my ear?”

“You’re certainly ratcheting up his blood pressure, putting in calls to all the major investment firms in the city as if you’re ready to jump ship. People do talk.”

“That was my expressed hope.”

“The only thing that is probably saving you from being fired at this point is that a public rift would make the family look bad.”

Tyrion pouts. “God forbid. We’re such a picture of familial bliss.”

Jaime sighs, thinking of the last call he received from his father, which amounted to a lecture on what he and all the rest of them ought to be doing with their lives and in what ways they’ve individually and collectively failed him. “Wouldn’t be good for the business either if it looked like Tywin Lannister didn’t have control of his own sons. He expects you to come to your senses and toe the line. That’s what he expects of all of us.”

“Well, a little rise in his blood pressure won’t do him any real harm. Shame. He’ll out live us all.”

Jaime doesn’t believe in the heavenly type of immortality. He firmly subscribes to the belief that immortality is only found in the history books and archives, the type of shit for brainy types, and maybe the memories of those who outlive you if you were worth remembering, but his brother could be right about their father being the exception to that rule. He has a quality about him that makes it difficult to imagine him ever getting old or becoming enfeebled.

He is closer to seventy than he is sixty, but he’s still tall, straight-backed, slender-waisted, and broad-shouldered. He’s probably gone grey if his heavy brows are anything to go by, but since going bald years ago, he’s shaved his head, so there’s no real knowing for sure. Jaime knows he’s still strong. He regularly beats his younger business partners on the tennis court and his daily routine includes swimming laps for an hour at his swimming club’s rooftop pool. It’s as if by not smiling, Tywin Lannister managed to tap into not quite the fountain of youth but something equally powerful.

“Particularly if you keep getting yourself in these terrible scrapes and I keep staying out late with Shae only to turn around and get up early the next day to grease the wheels of commerce.”

“He’ll have to outlive us, unless he wants his grandson running his company.”

It’s not something Jaime has spent much time worrying about—hardly any point, when Joff will inherit whether he’s equipped for the job or not, much like Jaime was thrust into a role he would never be suited for on account of his birth—but he’s not completely immune to misgivings about the prospect of seeing Joff sitting in the big chair their father currently occupies.

Tyrion’s face contorts, looking as if he might gag. “Trust me, I’ve thought of that. He would beat Jeff Bezos out for the world’s worst boss. No one wants to see him running things.”

“Cersei does.”

“What Cersei would really like is control of Lannister Merc for herself. A big corner office and lots of people to boss around.”

Truer words were never spoken. Cersei likes to think of herself as Jaime and Tyrion’s father’s equal, despite her lack of any business education or practical experience. None of that signifies. She thinks she’s Tywin Lannister with tits.

“It’s why she’s so hysterical over this Baratheon mess,” Tyrion continues. “With Lannister Merc out of reach, the best she can hope for is that Robert will drink himself into an early grave, so she can lord over Tommen and Baratheon Industries.

“Except Robert might spend Tommen right out of his inheritance.” That is what had her so wrought up about of late, although Jaime couldn’t bring himself to care, when the solution seemed clear enough to him. He could provide for Cersei and Tommen. They don’t need Robert at all. “I thought it was me she wanted,” Jaime says, attempting a lopsided smile.

“I’m sure you still have your uses, missing hand or no.”

“Thanks.”

“She’s just angry and whenever she’s angry she becomes hopelessly stupid. She’ll come around, I’m sure, once she’s cooled off.”

There’s another knock at the door, one that makes Tyrion turn his head around, but Jaime doesn’t need to look to know who it is this time.

“Looks like your expected visitor is here.”

Jaime barks out to Brienne to come in, as Tyrion brushes off his slacks with a quick motion of his hands and slides to the floor, obviously finished with his little impromptu visit. It’s a good thing, because the last thing Jaime wants is for anyone to see him fight through one of these therapy sessions. He doesn’t need people knowing he’s only half the man he once was. Let them think for the time being that losing a hand could hardly put a dent in his armor and that he’s merely taking an extended vacation from his responsibilities.

“Who’s the mystery guest?”

“Brienne, my physical therapist.”

Brienne doesn’t say anything—she doesn’t ever do much in the way of talking—when she comes through the door and makes for his eight person dining room table, where she’ll unpack her dark navy duffle bag of supposedly curative weaponry that she stubbornly forces him to manipulate, though he’s assured her there is absolutely no point.

Tyrion stops, watching her for a moment with unmasked curiosity, one hand propped on his hip, as she unzips the bag. She’s not the kind of person you could miss even in a crowd. Yes, she is ugly, but she’s also freakishly tall: as tall as any man and as broad as one too. She sort of shambles along, moving as if she’s not entirely comfortable in her skin, and yet she persists in always dressing like a football coach, which draws the type of attention you’d think an insecure woman would want to avoid if possible. And damn if she’s not strong. She ends up hurting him every fucking therapy session without one word of apology. She’s as strong as the Mountain, All-Star catcher for the Dodgers, who could knock a man out cold at home plate with one well placed shoulder.

When he’s gotten a good hard look, his brother turns back to him and says under his breath, “Brienne the Bruiser, huh?”

“Just Brienne,” Jaime corrects, belatedly realizing there’s an edge to his voice that he didn’t mean to impart.

“Didn’t mean to offend,” Tyrion says, holding up one hand in surrender. “Only, I thought you said she was holding you prisoner and torturing you.”

“I say a lot of things.”

“Fair enough,” he says, gathering up his jacket. “I’ll get out of your hair.”

Jaime stands as well, ready to join Brienne at the table, where she’s taken out the chart of his limited progress. He can see how she wrote Lannister at the top in thick black marker. She refuses to call him by his first name.

“Say hello to the world for me, little brother.”

“Don’t make me argue on Cersei’s behalf. Just pick up the damn phone if you really miss Cruella.”

He could. The phone is always in reach, sitting there on the wide, black coffee table. But he hasn’t felt like reaching out to anyone. Not in his current state. And while he’d like nothing more than to hear Cersei’s voice, he won’t be the first to make the move. He always comes to her, seeking out her comfort or giving her what she needs when she needs it. He is always the one to call, and now, after having lost the best part of himself, the part that was supposed to earn him a place amongst the greats, she needs to come to him for once. He’ll wait for the phone to chirp and her face to appear on his screen.

“Or you could continue sulking here alone.”

“That’s the plan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, look at that. Two updates in nearly as many days! The stars were truly in alignment. Hopefully this trend will continue.
> 
> Up next is Dany. The chapter will take place in the offices of Barristan & Rakharo. Jorah will be there too... And then we'll have a little mini Stark arc--Sansa, Cat, Jon--which I think people will find satisfying.
> 
> For sneak peeks, inspiration pics, fic related questions, and random acts of fangirling on all things ASOIAF, feel free to follow me on [tumblr](http://www.justadram.tumblr.com). I love my followers and readers!


	23. Dany

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trouble brings Dany to the offices of Barristan & Rakharo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are some inspiration photos for some locations noted in the chapter, which you can view [here](http://justadram.tumblr.com/post/92740526535/while-the-upcoming-chapter-of-a-city-takes-place).

Chapter Twenty-Two: Dany

As much as Dany loves her uncle, these meetings with him don’t always go well. Not when she comes to plead Viserys’ case for additional funds. It’s something she’s been forced to do a lot lately. Again and again her brother has required yet another advance, and she hasn’t been able to give him all of her monthly funds from the trust to cover what he needs to pay off whoever he’s in debt to and still manage her own living expenses. Time spent pulled up to her Lucite desk to squint at her laptop in the hopeless pursuit of moving expenses from one column to another so that they balance out in her documents is time she’d much rather spend accomplishing something useful. Which means she’s darkened her uncle’s door with increasing frequency, looking as apologetic about her brother’s shiftless behavior as possible. It isn’t fair. It really should be Viserys handling the mess he’s created, but she’s used to being the one who has to make sacrifices, so her brother can attempt to live like in the manner he thinks he is born.

This time she’s not come to plead Viserys’ case. She’s here to seek her uncle’s advice on what to do about Viserys’ incessant need for ever increasing amounts of money, which she suspects goes beyond his need to keep up appearances as royalty in exile. The fact that she’s not there as a supplicant has done little to lighten her spirit. It’s still an awkward subject, whether she’s asking for an advance or not, which is why Dany picked up a salad for her uncle at her favorite vegan lunch place. She’s hoping a thoughtful gesture will help soften the blow of what she means to tell her uncle, when she peeks her head around the door to his office and gives a little wave.

“Afternoon, Uncle Barristan. Hungry?” He raises his head up from his work, as she lifts up the orange canvas grocery tote she brought from home for the carryout, letting it swing from her outstretched fingers. The salad came in a plastic container, but she checked the bottom—recyclable. “I got you a salad. Totally vegan.”

His brows draw together. “Vegan. Is that the one where you don’t eat meat?”

“No meat, no dairy, no eggs. Nothing that exploits animals.”

“Right,” he says, patting the corner of his desk. “No meat _and_ no cheese. Very thoughtful. Put it right there.”

She does, rounding the corner to press a quick kiss to his clean shaven cheek.

“I’m sorry I’m late.” She would have been here in a timelier fashion, but there was traffic. She can hear Viserys reminding her that she’s _always_ late. The delay could have been avoided it if she took the subway, but in this humidity she probably would have ended up sweating through her blue silk romper, which made a cab sound like a reasonable solution. She can’t always be expected to make the green choice. There are things she has to do solely to make herself happy. Like a walk-in wardrobe full of neatly arranged shoes and purses, which aren’t animal friendly, or spending the evening in bed with Daario, instead of at yet another charity event, or taking a cab. “Still have time to talk?”

“Of course. Take a seat.”

He’s trying his best not to look dour, but Dany can tell her uncle is dreading a retread of the same old conversation they always have. It’s no wonder: these drop bys aren’t usually about catching up. It’s nearing the middle of the month, which tends to be when Viserys comes to her needing more money, sending her off to Barristan & Rakharo with open hands.

“You don’t want to eat?” she asks, as she arranges herself on the edge of the seat opposite her uncle. Everything about his office lacks the feminine touch. Even the chairs are unbearably uncomfortable—too hard and sized too large for someone as petite as she is. If she sat back, her feet would not touch the ground. Of course, her uncle is a tall man. It probably works well enough for him. “You can eat while we talk. I don’t mind.”

His eyes flick to the tote, looking as if he finds whatever hides tucked inside slightly terrifying. “Thank you. I will. Later.”

“Right down to it then,” she says, folding her hands in her lap. “I’m here about Viserys.”

Her uncle makes a low humming noise, his lips forming a tight, thin line. “He sent you again, did he?”

“No. Not this time, and actually, I’d rather he didn’t know I was here today. He’ll ask a lot of questions and make things difficult.”

She manages to make her uncle look a little surprised by this statement, his brows arching, one slightly higher than the other. “If you like. I can tell you that there’s little chance of him finding out regardless. He never comes here. Probably wouldn’t dare.”

Her brother isn’t properly grateful for what their uncle does for them. Dany is always happy to give Uncle Barristan some carefully chosen gift in hopes it might make his life a little brighter and demonstrate her appreciation for his efforts on her behalf, but it doesn’t shock her that Viserys keeps away. He’s something of a coward. He’s not afraid of her: he’ll shout, pinch, pull too hard, and push, when he feels thwarted in achieving his desires. But that doesn’t mean he’s not afraid of anyone, which is why he sends her to do his dirty work.

Her uncle isn’t missing out on much if Viserys makes himself scarce. She loves her brother, but he’s always been difficult and at this point he’s almost impossible to get along with. His mood of late verges on frightening. He finds fault with everything she does. He screams, calls names, and makes emotional threats. She doesn’t want to believe that this is who he really is and that he can’t be a happy, productive person that people would want to be around if things would only go his way with some regularity. Which is why she’s always tried to handle his financial messes, hoping it might remove some of the weight he carries on his shoulders and make him easier to deal with. Now it might be vital for his safety that she steps in.

“Not that he won’t be asking me for a loan in a couple of days—he probably will be—but I’m not here for an advance.”

Her uncle nods tersely, but says nothing.

She crosses her legs and immediately begins to bounce her top foot, making the fringe on her pink suede sandal shake. “I wanted to tell you about some of the things I’ve heard. Things I’m worried about. I don’t know who else to come to.”

“Go ahead.”

His assurance might not be overly warm—he’s always rather stiff and formal—but it is sincerely meant. She knows her uncle would do anything for her. When people talk about family loyalty, they’d do well to look to her uncle as a fine example. He’s the most honorable man she knows. Unfortunately, while she knows he’d happily go to battle for her best interests and that he’s the best defender of the trust left to her and Viserys in her parents’ death, he’s not someone she usually considers an invaluable source of advice. There are limits to what her uncle can do for her.

Who else can she rely on? Viserys is the problem—no hope there for assistance. Her girlfriends are good company, but often act too in awe of her position in society to be successfully pressed for advice on anything other than men. And Daario is hardly interested in her family’s affairs. Things have been fun since they started sleeping together, but he’s not somebody she wants to bother with personal issues. Sometimes she fears he’s not the kind of person to stick around through real trouble, which makes her current familial situation one she’s reluctant to share with him.

She slows the bounce of her foot, breathing through her nose in preparation of saying aloud just what kind of a mess their family might be in thanks to Viserys’ bad choices. If what she’s heard is true, it’s the kind of mess that could mean trouble for both her and Uncle Barristan if it gets too far out of hand, which means she might not be here asking for money, but she’s come with news that will certainly affect her uncle.

“I think he’s gotten himself in over his head. I’m worried he’s in real trouble.”

Her uncle has an uneasy relationship with Viserys unlike the one he shares with his less problematic niece, but that doesn’t stop his blue eyes from suddenly appearing even sadder than usual. They crinkle at the corners, the lids lowering, as he frowns.

“What kind of trouble?”

“Financial trouble, but not like before. I know Viserys lives beyond his means.” Obsessed with proving that they are better than other people by outspending them. “But his constant demands for money are worse than ever.”

“True.”

“There’s rumblings about bad debts.”

Her uncle rubs at his chin. “You think he’s borrowing money from more than just your own share of the trust?”

“It sounds like it. If what people are saying is true, he’s borrowed from a lot of people, and it sounds like they are the kind of people you have to pay back. Or else. Bad people, Uncle Barristan. I’m afraid for him.”

He mumbles something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like 'stupid.' Putting himself at the mercy of people who lack scruples is no doubt one of the more stupid things he has done and quite possibly the behavior of a very desperate person.

“I’d like to say people will always talk and not to put stock in it, but you’re probably right to be worried.”

“I am. I’m afraid of what it would mean for all of us if he couldn’t pay. I think that’s why he’s acting so unhinged. You’ve noticed it, haven’t you?”

“He’s acting crazy.”

That word isn’t one she likes. It triggers nasty associations. The papers and trashy biographies written about her father following his death almost universally said he was crazy. _Mentally ill_ , Uncle Barristan is always careful to correct, when the topic comes up, but is there really any difference? And if Viserys really takes after their father in that regard, would paying off his debts really solve anything?

“What do you want me to do, Dany? I’ll do whatever it is you think is best.”

“Could you talk to him?”

“He’s not going to listen to whatever advice I might have for him. He never has.”

“I know.”

It was a stab in the dark at best. Viserys doesn’t listen to anyone. He doesn’t think he needs to.

“Even with his back against the wall that boy’s too proud.”

He’s right about that, but his response has caused a tendril of irritation to creep up her back, making her sit more upright and her jaw to tense. What Dany is tempted to say is that she wants her uncle to tell _her_ what to do for once, so the burden is not solely hers. This role she plays in her brother’s life and as a representative of what remains of the Targaryen family is sometimes too much. It leaves her feeling lonely and isolated and overtaxed. The expectation that she be the one to fix all her brother’s problems is not realistic, no matter how much she’d like to do it for him. Besides, she wouldn’t even know where to start. Why couldn’t someone, why couldn’t her uncle, tell her what to do instead?

A piece of her hair has escaped the side braids she put in this morning sitting before her dressing mirror, and she tucks it behind her ear with a tense sigh. “I don’t know what either of us can do. But I wanted you to know.”

“I’ll think on it. I can promise you that.”

“What do you imagine Mr. Mormont would have to say about it?” Dany asks, reaching out to touch the edge of his desk with the tips of her fingers, as she watches her uncle’s face harden.

“Why would you want to involve him?”

“I don’t know,” she says, pulling her hand back with a little shrug of her shoulder. “We’ve talked sometimes. I like him. He seems as if he’d be willing to help me out if I asked it of him.”

There’s no mistaking that she’s managed to upset her uncle, and the frisson of pleasure she feels at watching his composure crack is more acute than it should be. She can’t hold back the triumphant smile that tugs at the corners of her mouth.

“You let me worry about Jorah Mormont and leave him out of our family business.”

“He works for you. Are you telling me you don’t trust him?”

“Not with everything.”

Her brother’s mood turns dark when he doesn’t get his way. It isn’t a trait she has been entirely spared either, and in the absence of any meaningful solution to her problem, she begins to recall all the irritants that have plagued her.

“What about Tyrion Lannister then?” she asks with a tilt of her head. “Do you trust him? Maybe he’ll want to have his say on what to do about my brother?”

“You’ve heard then?”

“Of course I have. It’s practically the talk of the city. Is it true?”

“Nothing’s been decided, but yes, we’re in talks. He’s contacted me about possibly joining us here. He isn’t happy at Lannister Merc.”

“Poor baby.”

Her uncle brings a fist up to his mouth, tapping it against his mouth. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

“Neither would I. I don’t like him. I don’t like any of those Lannisters. They’re a despicable bunch, and he was terribly rude at my event at Meereen.”

“He speaks his mind.”

Dany rolls her eyes. “If that’s what you want to call it.”

“I’m being cautious about the prospect of letting him join the firm. Very cautious, because I don’t think much of their family either, but he is a smart man.”

“No one denies that he’s clever. But there are other qualities to either condemn or recommend a person. Like loyalty, which it sounds like he lacks completely. I am not in favor of you hiring him, if my opinion pulls any weight.”

“It does.” He pauses, watching her for a moment. “Your Mr. Mormont doesn’t think it’s a terrible idea.”

Dany blinks quickly, struck by the unpleasant sensation of having been accused of something. “He’s not _my_ Mr. Mormont.”

“Good, because I wouldn’t like that either.”

There’s hardly anything else to be said on any of these matters—they’re only chasing their tails at this point—and her mood is spoiled, which is why she urges him to eat his salad and promises to be in touch, as she makes her exit with as much grace as possible, despite the tension running through her body.

When she turns the corner outside of her uncle’s office, her sandals slapping the hardwood floor with as much force as her body can exert, it is almost as if the swing in her conversation conjured up Jorah Mormont, who quite nearly knocks her over, crashing into her shoulder hard enough to send her into the paneled wall.

“Excuse me,” he says, reaching out to grip her shoulder with one big hand. “Did I hurt you?”

Part of her wants to shrug his touch off with a sharp jerk, annoyed at Jorah’s apparently friendly eye towards a deal between Tyrion and Barristan & Rakharo. Another part wonders whether it was no accident that she ran into Jorah. Her uncle’s offices are fairly expansive. He could be anywhere within these walls, but he’s found her here. For Jorah to wander into this hallway, where she might be expected to be found after her meeting, seems a strange coincidence. That he would manufacture a meeting with her helps sooth the lingering pique from the meeting with her uncle and keeps her from tossing him off.

She hasn’t yet managed to assure him that she’ll survive, when his gaze dips to trace the deep v of her romper, lingering over where it stops a few inches above her navel.

“Not really. I’m a little rattled,” she says, her hand going to her forehead. “Literally and figuratively. But the good news is that it takes more than a little bump to break me.”

“Glad to hear it,” he says, shoving his hand back in his pocket. “It’s good to see you.”

“It’s good to be seen,” she says, brushing at the shoulder that took the blow.

Really seen. Sometimes it feels as if Daario is more in love with his extravagant image than he is with her. The only draw in their relationship shouldn’t be that her choosing him appeals to his conceit.

“Am I keeping you from your uncle?”

“No, we just finished discussing the somewhat alarming prospect of a Lannister darkening these already dangerous hallways.”

“In which princesses risk getting buffeted.”

“Exactly. What do you know about this fresh threat?”

He makes an indeterminate noise and seems like he’s waiting for her to say more or change the subject, so that he might avoid giving his opinion—the one she’s already acquainted with thanks to her uncle—but she refuses, instead adjusting the thin strap of her romper, which has slipped in the tumult of their minor crash. The silence eventually works upon him, and he acknowledges that he’s aware she doesn’t like the man.

“Good of you to remember. I thought I could count on you to dispatch my enemies, Sir Bear,” she says with a playful scowl, though her annoyance with him is real. “Not invite them into the fold. But now I hear you’re in favor of the man.”

He makes another noise and scratches behind his ear. “I’m a pragmatic man, when it comes to business.”

“I see.” It’s not a bad trait. She tries to be pragmatic, but her passions often threaten to steer her course as much as reason. The needling of her uncle is proof enough of that. “I suppose no harm has been done. His name isn’t emblazoned across one of these doors yet.”

“I’m sure your uncle will take your opinion into consideration.”

“I would like to think so.”

“He wouldn’t have asked you your opinion otherwise.”

“Well, it only happened to come up. I came to talk with him about my brother. We’re always talking about my brother. It’s never good.”

“Is there anything I could do?”

Dany reaches out to touch his arm, her hand slipping down over his suit coat until she reaches right above his elbow. “I knew you’d be concerned. I said as much to my uncle.”

“You spoke about me with your uncle?”

She gives his arm a squeeze. “I did.”

He clears his throat, shifting his focus for a moment over her head before looking back down at her. “I’ve been meaning to call you. I’d like to take you out.”

Dany inhales, drawing back her hand to wrap her arms around her middle, as the cold of the office’s air conditioning causes her skin to pebble. She wasn’t expecting him to ask her out, despite the obvious interest he’s shown in her whenever they’ve happened to meet.

“On a date,” she says to make sure she hasn’t misunderstood.

“Yes.”

“Is it the pragmatist in you, asking me out?” she asks, stalling as best she can.

It should be an easy answer for her. It isn’t an obvious match after all. Yes, his attentions aren’t entirely unwanted, which is why she’s engaged him in some harmless flirtation. But he’s not handsome. He’s well built and she doesn’t doubt he would be a very dedicated boyfriend, but he’s not her type. He works for her uncle, which creates something of a conflict, as her uncle has made clear. Socially they don’t move in the same circles, which means Viserys wouldn’t much like the match either if it failed to advance either of their interests. And there’s Daario.

“No one would accuse me of being always pragmatic.”

“Thank you. I appreciate the offer, but I’m with someone at the moment.”

She and Daario aren’t committed to each other; they’ve never had that particular talk. Even if they were committed, she’s not ready to marry her boyfriend by any means—the sex is good, but not so good that she’s lost her mind. Daario is merely filling a void for the time being. But it would feel like a betrayal to say yes to Jorah’s invitation. She has to say no, whether or not she likes the idea of having someone like her Sir Bear to call upon, when her world is turning too fast. Or when she’d like someone to be pragmatic for her, and solve this problem of her brother’s dangerous connections. A problem that for now feels hopelessly unsolvable.

“The rocker?”

“Yes, that’s the one,” she says with some amount of cheer, since he doesn’t seem entirely put out by her rejection. Maybe he has seen something about it in the gossip magazines and expected as much. They always make the covers.

“Shame. He seems like an idiot.”

And there her mood goes once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next is a Stark arc--Sansa, Cat, Jon. I'm really excited about it, and I'm hoping you all will be too. There's liable to be some plot activity on [Sansa](http://www.makepinklemonade.tumblr.com) and [Jon's](http://www.theghostofjonsnow.tumblr.com) tumblrs, so be sure to check those out, and feel free to follow [me](http://www.justadram.tumblr.com) too!


	24. Sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's something about being around Jon that makes Sansa say and do things she probably shouldn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The inspiration picture for the Stark's townhouse's living room. where this chapter takes place, can be seen [here](http://justadram.tumblr.com/post/92858557510/were-back-to-the-stark-townhouse-in-the-upcoming).

Chapter Twenty-Three: Sansa

With her back to the hallway, so the sunlight still filtering through the French doors can’t cast a glare over her laptop screen, Sansa almost doesn’t hear him. But the elevator dings as it opens for someone and there is the soft pad of his sneakers on the hardwood floor and then silence, as he hovers at the entry to the living room, where she has situated herself for the evening. She knows who it is before she cranes her head around to smile at him.

“Hi, Jon.”

He dips his head, one brow arching. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“Well, here I am,” she says, patting the space next to her on the cream colored sofa.

She sits forward, placing her laptop on the square, tufted ottoman to get it off her lap and out of her way. She doesn’t often have time alone with Jon. Her internship takes up most of her time—the pay is next to nothing and they overwork her, but she loves it nonetheless. When she isn’t at work and they do have a chance to time watch the odd late night movie on the weekend, knocking on his door to rouse him from his solitude. Which is why if he’s gone to the trouble to come looking for her, she wants to give him her undivided attention. Editing Arya’s essay for school can wait.

“Come sit with me,” she adds, when he comes no further than the edge of the Oriental rug that spans the center of the room.

At this additional invitation, he walks around the couch, and she notices he’s got something clutched in his hand, something he’s holding slightly out of sight.

“What have you got there?”

He looks down at whatever it is partially hidden on his left side as if he is surprised to see it there. “Uh, something I picked up for you this afternoon.”

What he thrusts into her hand upon sitting beside her is a little Starbuck’s paper envelope, which bulges in the middle. Though it can’t be anything substantial given the size of the bag, Sansa feels the strange fluttering in her belly that she’s been trying to avoid ever since Christmas, when it became clear that she had left herself get too close to Jon. Close enough that she lost sight of what he was supposed to be to her. Or at least what everyone expected them to be to each other.

“From Starbucks?” she asks, as she unfolds the bag, her nude polished nails parting the opening in a scissor motion.

“I was walking by.”

It’s hard not to walk passed a Starbucks in the city, but that’s hardly the point. Jon Snow doesn’t go to Starbucks. Ever.

She peeks inide. It’s a cake pop iced in pale yellow and sprinkled with pastel jimmies. It’s pretty and looks delicious.

“It’s lemon butter cream. So I’m told.”

“Lemon? _Jon_. My favorite.”

Anything lemon sounds divine. She pulls the pop out and lets the envelope fall into the lap of her sundress, sorely tempted to pop the treat immediately into her mouth, despite having finished dinner less than an hour ago.

He crosses his arms, his shoulders curving inwards. “It’s nothing. I saw it and thought of you. You’ve been working hard.”

She thinks about him while she’s at work too. She looks forward to every text he sends her, every unexpected PM. One of her favorite moments in any day is when she makes it home in time for dinner and he sits down next to her and gives her that little smile from underneath his dark lashes. What she never says in that moment is that she’s missed him. Not just over the course of the day, but ever since things changed between them and this careful distance developed. It is a change of her own design and for the best, but she still misses him.

It’s probably too much to hope for that the cake pop means any or all of that, but it is proof that he periodically thinks about her too and that’s something.

“You sweet thing,” she says, elbowing him in the side. “How did you know they had these?”

He shrugs. “I saw it while I was grabbing a coffee.”

Jon is thoughtful in ways she would have once dismissed as trivial. He isn’t one for grand gestures. Probably not because he’s incapable of dreaming on the grand scale. It’s more likely that kind of showstopping gesture would draw too much attention to him rather than the person he was trying to do something for. After all, even so much as acknowledging these little acts seems to make him uncomfortable. Knowing that, she should let it go at thank you, but she feels compelled to push the issue if only to see if he will blush.

“I know you made a special trip for me,” she says, twirling the pop between her fingers.

“How do you figure?”

“I bet you’ve never been inside a Starbucks.”

“Is that right?”

“You wouldn’t be caught dead feeding the corporate beast like that.”

No one would ever say Jon rants, but he will get rather passionate about sustainability and small businesses if you give him an opening. A few beers helps too.

His face contorts with some emotion that tugs at his brows and the corners of his mouth. “I might have something going on with a barista.”

Until recently, Sansa never had reason to revise her long held opinions about Jon, including how he fared with the opposite sex. She assumed he was hopeless, the way he was when they were teenagers and Robb and Theon had dates and Jon sat at home. She couldn’t begin to fathom how he ever ended up with a girlfriend.

It’s not such a mystery to her anymore.

What’s become pretty clear is that his monk like habits are self imposed rather than the result of an inability to impress the ladies. She’s seen the way women look at him. She’s noticed him looking back too. What keeps him from doing anything about it is the real mystery. But she has her suspicions. Either he’s in love with his dead girlfriend or he believes he is paying tribute to her in death by refusing to move on with someone else. There is no barista, but there could be if he got over Ygritte, and then he would be buying cute little gifts for her instead.

Something in Sansa’s chest gives protest, tightening painfully. Something she doesn’t want to acknowledge.

“You’re a dirty liar, Jon,” she says, as she kicks at his leg with her bare foot.

“Oh, is that how it is? Ingrate. I can take it back,” he says, making to grab it from her pinched fingers.

It feels good to be teased by him, to see happiness bleeding through his false scowl. It makes her bold.

Giving him her most blasé expression, a look of utter disregard for his idle threat, she tips the pop towards him as if to offer it up freely. She is primed for his attack when it comes, and while he’s quick, he isn’t quick enough to stop her from yanking the pop back out of reach.

She clicks her tongue against her teeth, wordlessly scolding. “No you can’t.”

“I don’t think you even want it.”

Her heart beat speeds up at his unfair assertion spoken in a distinctly lower tone than his normal roughened one.

Nothing was fair about this little game from the start, with his reach being longer than hers and the way he unconsciously makes her feel—unbalanced and lightheaded. A little balance is what she could use, when he lunges far enough that it’s impossible both to save her present and remain upright. Falling backwards with one hand holding her pop aloft, she snatches at his elbow with a sharp gasp in a fruitless attempt to stop herself. He’s dragged down right along with her, and they collapse into a heap of tangled arms and legs.

It’s only a matter of reflexes. She didn’t mean to pull him on top of her, but an unfurling ribbon of guilt from deep in her belly insists otherwise, because nothing that feels this nice could be accidental. She forgets how to breathe, as he stares at her nose to nose with one arm propped alongside her head—the only thing preventing her from feeling the full force of his weight. Hardly matters: she can still feel the outline of his whole body over hers, his breath on her face, and the tickle of a wayward curl brushing her forehead. She wants to brush it back. She wants to wrap one leg around his waist. She wants to feel his skin and not just the heat of him through his clothes. Half a dozen things she might like to do to Jon flit through her mind, while her breasts are compressed with each intake of his breath that swells his chest.

Mya wasn’t wrong: there’s a dangerous current here and she might not have the strength to swim against it. She’s known that for longer than she’s wanted to admit it. This is why she kept away.

It’s the closest they’ve been since Christmas Eve, when he leaned in to kiss her cheeks and she almost lost her head, and while this started as playful and that was a moment thick with something else, her body doesn’t register the difference.

Jon isn’t weak. Jon has better boundaries than she does. Ones that can’t be breached by overly sentimental nonsense and an inappropriate surge of hormones. Jon still has his head about him. He must, because he disentangles himself from her, leaving go of his attempted retrieval of the cake pop on a softly muttered curse. She pulls her legs in closer to herself, as she watches him sit bolt upright, head tilted down, as he pushes his hands through his hair. He spots the fallen Starbucks envelope on the floor and leans down to scoop it up and toss it on the ottoman, and while his attention is directed elsewhere, Sansa works herself up against the arm of the sofa and tucks her legs under the polka dot skirt of her dress, toes curling. If he can shake off their encounter, she can too.

One bite diminishes the cake pop’s size by half. The urge from a few minutes earlier to devour it has been superseded by the need to do something with her hands, but either way this thing is getting eaten. It is delicious in its moist lemony goodness, totally as good as it looks.

At her hum of appreciation, his eyes cut to her and something about his sidelong glance makes her swallow once more than is strictly necessary for such a relatively small bite of dessert.

Polite thankfulness not only is always appropriate, it also seems like a good way to smooth over the lingering awkwardness between them. “It’s very good. Thank you.”

“What are you, uh,” he says, pausing to scrub his face. His hand jerks to indicate the laptop that’s gone to sleep before them. “What are you working on here?”

She’s lucky he hasn’t fled the room, so she latches on to the change in subject with practiced ease. Making people feel comfortable has always been one of her notable talents.

“Hmm.” Taking the remaining bite of cake, she reaches out to drop the stick on the envelope. “Arya has to read three novels over the summer for English, and she’s supposed to write an essay on each of them.”

“They shouldn’t assign books to kids over the summer. That’s criminal.”

“I don’t know. It’s nice to be inside with a book when it’s hot and sticky out.”

He frowns. Jon wasn’t a bad student and she knows he reads—all very serious stuff that even she probably would reject in favor of an afternoon in the park—but he and Arya are alike in that they’ve always preferred active pursuits when given a choice.

“Anyway, that’s what they always do, and it only occurred to her this week that maybe she better start reading if she wants to have something to turn in on day one.”

“And you got tagged to help out.”

“Yeah, I promised her I’d help her. This first one is kind of a mess. It’s obvious that she rushed through it to get it over with, which is what I intend on telling her after I make some more notes on it, because if I noticed, her teacher will too.”

Her little sister also might spend less time hanging out with her friend Gendry and a little more thinking about getting her act together, but if Sansa passed along that piece of advice, Arya would no doubt flounce from the room in a fit of pique.

“She came to the right person for help. You always have been good with writing and creative things.”

“It’s high school level stuff. Not exactly high art.”

“No, come on. You’re really good.” He has looked for the past couple of minutes as if he might jump up from the edge of the sofa at the slightest provocation, but with the conversation safely settled into a subject that does not revolve around him, he finally sits back against the sofa, his hands rubbing down the length of his denim clad thighs, as he sinks into the cushion. “Graciously accept my compliment.”

He’s one to talk, but she caves under his steady gaze. “Thank you, Jon,” she says, biting back a smile.

“I’m surprised you didn’t declare English lit as your major.”

She was undeclared when she failed out of school, distracted by all the wrong things and on her way to become master of nothing as a result. In some ways, having never settled on a focus made it easier to walk away. There was less to say goodbye to.

“Maybe I would have if I would have stayed. That or French.” She pleats the fabric of her skirt between her fingers, folding and refolding. “ _Je suis perdu_ ,” she adds, knowing Jon won’t understand.

She’s not as lost as she was in Boston, but as much satisfaction as she finds in her internship, she’s still floundering in other aspects of her life, particularly her personal life. Mya thinks she needs to put herself out there, meet guys, kiss boys in bars. The thought of it makes her stomach turn. Sometimes she wonders if that will always be the case. Some essential part of herself might be irrevocably broken, the part of her that won’t ever let her trust some random guy that wants to buy her a drink.

“Is that cheating if you’ve lived in France?”

She gives her skirt a flick. “ _Non_. Just wisely putting existing skills to good use.”

“See? Smart.”

Majoring in French would have ended up being a waste of time, but that was just the sort of romantic flippancy she used to be given to, carving out fantasies of Parisian cafés, sophisticated, effortless fashion, and handsome Frenchmen who can pick the right wine for you for any occasion, instead of thinking about her future.

“Not really. I probably would have ended up back here, struggling to figure out what to do with my expensive degree.”

“And I’m obviously putting mine in environmental science to such good use,” he says with a lift of his brows.

Jon doesn’t even have a plant in his room. She’s not the only one who is lost.

“Do you miss it?” he asks.

“Paris?”

“School.”

“No need. I’m going to be taking a class in the fall.”

A class in the history of modern fashion. Four hours every Saturday morning, which means she will have zero time to sleep in.

Everything she knows about fashion has been culled from fashion magazines and blogs and her stint as a model. Not the worst induction into the world of fashion, but one which she feels is incomplete without a little historical grounding. Of course, with her Saturdays taken up, she’ll have even less time to herself, but the prospect doesn’t bother her. She’s looking forward to learning something new and applying it to her work and her blog project. Hopefully that means she’s on the right track professionally at least.

“Boston then, going away to school, friends and all that. You miss that?”

“Oh. Not even a little bit.”

She was lonely for her friends initially, but the strange way Margaery essentially dropped her as soon as she was out of sight made Sansa reevaluate all her Boston friendships, none of which survived her dropping out. Maybe they were all false friends. Maybe nothing was real there. Nothing except the awful things that happened.

“If you did want to give it another try, I’m sure it could be arranged. It’s not like you’re not up to it academically.”

“I can promise you that door is closed forever.”

He nods, considering her in silence for a moment. “You ever going to tell anyone what happened?”

This isn’t a topic that gets brought up in the family. Her parents were satisfied with her decision to take the internship and they seemed pleased with her plans to take the one class, but no one ventures to ask her about what exactly went on that last semester, when things fell apart. Either they assume they know or they think she’s not up to discussing it. All of that is fine: there’s some comfort in being able to avoid the issue. Except when she can’t sleep at night from obsessively thinking about it.

She suddenly feels that empty pit of loneliness opening up inside of her, hollowing her out in the way that was painfully commonplace last summer. Desperate for some sense of connection, she extends one leg until the ball of her foot presses into his hip, flexing. Being close to Jon was one of the only things that helped back then. It has the same effect now.

“Isn’t it obvious?” she asks, her voice sounding pathetically small.

“Not really.”

Not to her therapist either, despite getting to the bottom of things so they can talk about them essentially being her job description. Sansa’s always attempted to deftly redirect any of Dr. Chayle’s probing questions about her academic spiral, allowing the issue of her brother’s death to stand in as the harbinger of all her problems rather than the final blow. She’s not sure obfuscation is the healthiest path for her to take, but it’s the defense mechanism she finds herself falling back on.

“Do you tell your counselor everything?” she asks, suspecting she knows the answer.

She isn’t wholly comfortable with her therapist, experience having taught her that as much as she wants to embrace people, everyone is suspect until proven otherwise. It runs deeper with Jon, who is cautious by nature. Or he has been since he first came into her life. It’s hard to imagine him opening up to some stranger because they have a fancy degree behind their name.

“Everything? Not even close.” He angles his head to look down at her foot, and before she can pull it back in embarrassment, he lifts her leg up, placing her foot squarely in his lap. “You could tell me if you want.”

She could. Jon’s no stranger—not anymore—and there’s a kinship there, a feeling of shared tragedy and history that has helped build understanding and trust. There’s a chance unburdening herself to someone who cares about her would help her sleep a little better and make her feel less alone. It’s only the skin crawling details of what she has to admit that make her hesitate.

“If I told you, you wouldn’t…”

Knowing what happened with Dean Baelish after her break up with Joff would forever change how Jon perceives her, and that’s not something she thinks she could handle. She needs him to look at her like she’s worth something. She needs for him to think of her as the smart girl, the creative one, the girl full of promise. Not tainted.

“I wouldn’t what?” he asks, his index finger lightly circling her ankle bone.

Like me anymore, she wants to say, but that’s ridiculous, because he _does_ like her and _not like that_.

She stares up at the gilded mirror hung over the mantelpiece. It doesn’t reflect back her image—it’s much too high to show anything but the tall bookcase off behind her packed with cloth hardback books—but she knows well enough what she would see if it did. Lightly glossed lips, a brush of blush brightening her pale cheeks, and a fine layer of mascara to highlight her blue eyes. No more than a dusting of eye shadow. Nothing showy. Nothing to draw the wrong kind of attention. The picture of feminine conservatism.

It’s not the reflection of the girl who made the terrible decision to go to the dean’s house in the Hamptons, the one who was running away from an ex-boyfriend she let humiliate and push her around. She made sure of that when she dyed her hair dark in the dean’s bathroom, dye disappearing down the drain in a more comforting swirl than her tears ever felt being washed away in the shower.

But underneath, for all her hiding, she’s still that imprudent girl. Jon doesn’t know that, because she has managed to hide her from everyone.

“You’d think differently about me. You’d think I was…”

His hand settles over her shin, warm and dry. “Whatever it is can’t be any worse than the things I’ve thought about myself.”

“Not this. This is different.”

She’s not being reasonable. She realizes it as soon as the words leave her mouth, because Jon carries mountains of soul crushing guilt. Guilt over Robb, guilt over Jon’s team, guilt over his girlfriend. He blames himself for every loss, taking personal responsibility for each of their tragic deaths.

“Try me.”

She draws her darkened hair over one shoulder, pulling her fingers through the waves, fixing a purposefully blank expression to her face as she flatly says, “You’d think I was a slut.”

Yes, maybe she wanted to shock him, to say something vile about herself, something she would never say about anyone, so someone would finally see how messed up she really is and _believe_ it. It would certainly solve her problem of feeling half in love with him, when he stopped being so damn sweet to her as a result. But he doesn’t look shocked or disgusted: he looks stung, hurt, he looks like he’s been slapped, with his eyes gone wide and his fingers tightening around her leg, and she wasn’t prepared for that at all.

She tries to choke out an apology, hating herself for letting her darker impulses win over, but he squeezes tighter, cutting off her frantic search for the right words, and what he says turns out to be the only thing she needs to hear.

“Honey, nothing you could say could ever make me think that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Upcoming POVs in the Stark arc: Cat, Jon.
> 
> Check out [Sansa](http://www.makepinklemonade.tumblr.com) and [Jon's](http://www.theghostofjonsnow.tumblr.com) tumblrs. Feel free to interact with them! You can follow [me](http://www.justadram.tumblr.com) for inspiration pics and sneak peeks.


	25. Catelyn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The charity fashion drive gives Catelyn the opportunity to spend time alone with Sansa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stark boys' room inspiration pic [here](http://justadram.tumblr.com/post/93782126920/in-the-stark-townhouse-again-for-the-upcoming).
> 
> There is no explicit description of what went on between Sansa and Petyr in this chapter, and nothing that went on between them was non-con or dub-con. Nevertheless, Petyr took advantage of his position and Sansa's vulnerability, as he does in canon. So while I don't think there is triggering content, mileage may vary. Maybe a good shower after reading isn't such a bad idea.

Chapter Twenty-Four: Catelyn

On the nights Catelyn is taken from home by charity dinners and public appearances, Osha makes sure the boys are bathed and put to bed on time and Sansa or Jon can be counted on during the weekends to fill in, but when she is home, she prefers to do it herself. The time where they’ll allow you to suds their hair into mohawks, tuck them into bed, and kiss their foreheads goes by much too quickly to always be handing off the job to someone else. They’re babies one minute, noses sunk in comic books and hands smeared with sidewalk chalk, and then they’re running around at night with their rowdy friends, making your hair go grey as you wait for the echo of their voices in the hallway in the early morning hours the next.

Which is why she tucks Rickon’s sheet in from his shoulders down to his ankles, tightly entrapping his squirmy little boy body, pronounces him as snug as a bug in a rug, and turns off the overhead red lantern in the boys’ patriotic themed room, while Sansa works on the last minute donations to the charity fashion auction in her and Ned’s room. There is a chorus of quiet ‘night mama’s already laden with sleep, as she closes the door enough so that the dim light from the hallway won’t disturb them but she can still hear Bran’s call if he needs her during the night.

Sometimes she still feels as if she is composed of nothing but dust and bitterness over the loss of her baby boy, but the ones that are left to her, their little voices and smiles, even their trials and tantrums remind her that there is still life to live. Her husband reminds her of it too. Ned will be home in a couple of days with Congress adjourning, and he’ll want his chance to put the boys to bed too. It’s a fair trade for the time she’ll gain with her husband after they’re asleep. She is accustomed to running their home without him, but his place in their bed always feels expansively empty in his absence, leaving her to feel more achingly empty than when he is close by.

Cat makes her way the few steps to the bedroom across the hallway, past the closets and the boys’ bathroom, which once served as part of Ned’s office suite, and past the now quiet elevator. As she brushes open the door, her daughter looks up, the electronic glow of her laptop illuminating her young, bright complexion in a way that makes Cat smile. She sits cross-legged on the bed in her pink stripped pajamas with her laptop balanced on her knees and her hair piled on her head in a messy, looped ponytail. Sansa might not be as put together as she is when she heads off to her internship in the mornings, but she doesn’t need to be perfectly polished for Cat to think her the loveliest of young women.

“The boys are in bed,” Cat says in her lowered, after bedtime voice.

“Rickon looked so tired tonight.”

That’s a generous understatement, since he whined and fussed throughout the whole of dinner, flushed from the heat and his face knit with frustration at everything that didn’t go precisely his way. Nine months ago Cat would have bent the rules and done anything to ease the way with him, but she’s coming back to herself and standing firm again, when firmness is what is needed.

“He got too hot at day camp, poor little man,” Cat says, coming over to sit beside her daughter on the bed, where Sansa peers down at a digital camera resting on the comforter, flipping through full length pictures taken earlier today by Cat’s assistant of the donations from different angles and details of their labels.

“I shouldn’t have too much more work to do here, so you can have the evening to yourself.”

“Don’t worry about that. It’s you that could use a rest. You’ve been burning the candle at both ends. What can I do to help you, honey?”

Sansa has been incredibly helpful, working on this project in the evenings after she gets home from work and they’ve all finished with dinner and the nightly routine. It’s not surprising to Cat that her daughter has proven to be indispensable in preparing for the auction: she always had a flare for fashion. Whereas getting Arya into anything that didn’t resemble a soccer uniform as a little girl was an epic struggle rarely worth the effort, Sansa was the child whose enthusiasm for putting together an ensemble meant Cat didn’t need to expend any energy on what her eldest daughter should be wearing on any given day. As Sansa grew up, her enthusiasm for dress-up became something more focused. There were stacks of fashion magazines and trips to Fashion Week, Paris and a modeling career, print work and catwalks while she balanced her studies and social life at college, and now Sansa’s internship that has turned things around for her in a way Catelyn scarcely dared hope for this time last summer.

As far as Cat can tell, it happens to have bred a little healthy distance between her and Jon too. Cat was hoping all Sansa needed was something to sink herself into, so she wouldn’t feel compelled to spend so much time alone with him, lurking in the basement. That much seems to have worked out flawlessly.

“It’s okay. I don’t mind. This has been a lot of fun actually. All this beautiful fashion to gawk at and research. Not a bad gig really.”

Fashion isn’t something Cat is terribly enthusiastic or knowledgeable about, but many in her world are. She relied on those contacts to fill up the storage room with racks of designer clothing, some of which have their exorbitant price tags still attached. The only notable women to ignore her calls were those in Cersei Lannister’s immediate circle—Taena Merryweather, Lollys Stokeworth, and Jocelyn Swyth were among those who couldn’t even be bothered to pick up—and Cersei herself. Those women spend more on designer fashion than the other half of Manhattan put together, and normally they would have sent over some kind of cast off when called upon to donate if only to give the appearance of being charitable. The fact that they refused or ignored her outright only cemented Cat’s conviction that Cersei has poisoned the waters against their family at least within certain homes.

Nevertheless, there have been plenty of donations to work with and Cat has done her best to forget the snubs and focus on those who are eager supporters, rallying the right kind of people to the cause instead of ambitious phonies. It would be satisfying to chase those petty women down and demand answers for the cold shoulder she and her family have received, but she doesn’t care to end up as embittered as her sister, who seemed almost gleeful about being proven right, when Cat reported to her the nasty tenure of the last conversation Ned had with Robert.

Sansa gives her a smile—a real one—as she looks up from her work and adds, “And it’s been fun doing something together.”

As the donations trickled in, Sansa helped her catalogue them, writing up descriptions of each item using her knowledge of the designers and their collections. All this cataloguing saved Cat from the trouble of having to pay someone to research and fill in the gaps in her minimal knowledge of labels. Hopefully it will also attract people who are ready to bid once the catalogue is uploaded to the website with all the pertinent details and vivid descriptions Sansa has written to pair with the photographs. But it also provided them with hours to work alone together, side by side. It’s been the kind of quality time one doesn’t always get to spend with one’s grown children.

“It has been, hasn’t it?” Cat agrees.

She is perhaps more suspicious than she was before her son’s death—although at least in regards to Cersei she feels certain that it is not suspicion that makes her wary—but family is a comfort and these evenings with her daughter have allowed her to feel some measure of joy again.

“And based on what I’ve seen, this class of yours isn’t going to give you the least bit of trouble.”

Sansa twists a curling lock of darkened hair around her finger. It is a fidgety gesture that conflicts with the lightness of her voice, when she says, “Maybe,” indicating at least some residual anxiety about the prospect of returning to school, despite the great splash she has made in her internship, where everyone has been won over by her fresh talent and enthusiasm.

“I think it might help build your confidence back up about school.”

It needn’t be Boston and it needn’t be a degree in the liberal arts, but she and Ned would like to see Sansa go back to school. She’s too smart to give it up entirely. They want the world for her, every opportunity, every happiness, and the thought that the events of the past year might keep her from that is not one either of them want to entertain.

“Maybe,” Sansa repeats, this time infused with a markedly flatter, less sing song quality.

“I know it can’t be easy, starting something new, but your father and I are so happy you’ve decided to take another class.”

“Whether or not I do well this semester, I’m not going back to Boston.”

When Sansa confessed on her twenty-first birthday that she had failed out of school, she claimed she wasn’t going back. Ever. She said much the same thing when Cat sat her down in front of her father. It was how they came to the decision together that maybe an internship would be just the thing to get her out of the house and heading down the right path. So it shouldn’t be a shock to hear it, but it is, and Cat’s spine stiffens at her daughter’s firm assertion. She and Ned assumed—wrongly, it would seem—that Sansa would change her mind given enough time to adjust and heal. Enrolling in a class on the heels of her positive experience at the magazine only increased their optimism.

Sansa turns off the camera with a click. “Boston just isn’t an option for me anymore.”

“Boston,” Cat repeats, because there is something about the way Sansa said that one word which trips her maternal alarms. She suspected there was something more to Sansa’s story of how she came to skip both her midterms and finals, but they didn’t press the issue with her. Even the children’s therapist thought it best to let Sansa reveal everything in her own time. They were all so raw and Cat worried it would be poking at a wound to demand that she explain her reluctance to return to the school where she’d once been so happy. That instinct might have been a bad one. “Boston is the problem.”

Sansa’s finger swirls over the pad on her laptop, making the mouse move in ineffectual circles over the document she has open. “Joff is there, and I know he won’t be forever, but I don’t want to run into him if I can avoid it.”

“Breakups can be very difficult.”

Especially first loves, and while Cat never quite understood why Sansa was infatuated with Cersei’s eldest, when he seemed to all the rest of them to be the worst kind of spoiled brat, she can understand why the loss of him after more than a year of dating would feel monumental to Sansa. No doubt more so since presumably the breakup coincided rather closely with the loss of her brother.

Sansa makes a high humming noise, as if what Cat has said doesn’t properly match up with her feelings on the subject, but Cat has no time to pursue the topic further before Sansa says, “I don’t want to run into the dean either.”

“The dean?”

Sansa pulls down the drop menu, saving her work. “Dean Baelish. I’d be embarrassed to see him again.”

The laptop snaps shut as Sansa says ‘him,’ but the sound doesn’t obscure the rancor that infuses that one word.

That name spoken on the heels of Joffrey Baratheon’s, an ex-boyfriend, doesn’t follow. Petyr is a family friend. A long time family friend. One whom Cat’s known since she was just a girl, when he used to tag along after her and Lysa, a head shorter than either of them and pockets stuffed with rolls of Wint-O-Green Life Savers—the kind that spark in the dark. By the time they were teenagers, it was no secret he had a crush on her, but Sansa doesn’t know that.

“I didn’t think you really knew Petyr.”

“Not properly. Only the little bit from when we all went to lunch during orientation, but I went to him when I was getting in over my head at school.”

Which is exactly what Cat would have wanted her daughter to do. It’s the reason she introduced the two of them at freshman orientation.

“He wasn’t helpful?”

If Petyr knew that Sansa was floundering, Cat imagined he would have stepped in to help her, not only as a dean of the school, but also as a family friend, as someone who once held Cat in some affection. A call to her mother would not have been entirely amiss either.

Cat always thought the attention Petyr paid her was nothing more than the symptoms of a harmless crush. Perhaps at some point it developed into something more than that, because what he did at Cat’s wedding with Lysa seemed too purposefully timed and too pointed for Cat to fully ignore it. Still, it wasn’t the first time something inappropriate took place in a wedding party and no one got too hurt. Lysa moped for a few weeks, but that was the end of it. What happened between all of them was a lifetime ago. Far enough in the past that when Sansa chose Boston, it was a comfort to think of Petyr being right there in case she ever needed anything.

Petyr was someone Cat thought she could rely on. She assumed he was someone she could trust. It would be incredibly disappointing to find out that Petyr had refused to help Sansa, because Cat had chosen Ned over him. As if there had ever been a choice: she’d never viewed him as anything other than a little brother.

“He was at first,” Sansa says placing the closed laptop down on the comforter beside her and pulling her legs up to her chest. “I mean, he kind of helped me escape. Except, looking back on it, I know it was wrong of me to go.”

“Go where?”

“The Hamptons.” Sansa traces the length of one white stripe on her knee with her index finger. “Over break he invited me to stay at his place there.”

“Easter break?”

“Yes.”

“You told us you were with your friends.”

“Joff and I had already broken up and I couldn’t stand the thought of being around my friends. I went to the Hamptons.”

Cat bites her lip. She doesn’t like Sansa’s tone—detached and not as apologetic as Cat would expect her to be, when confessing that she lied to them about her whereabouts. She doesn’t like how her daughter won’t meet her eye either and she really doesn’t like the idea that a grown man invited her daughter to stay at his place. Any man. Even as old a friend as Petyr.

“It was a weird offer. I knew it right away, because what adult offers their place in the Hamptons to some college girl? It was like he was saying nice things, but I didn’t quite believe his face when he said them.”

What comes to mind now with sickening recall is how people who knew Cat when she was younger are always saying that Sansa reminds them of her as a girl. The resemblance is striking: similar bone structure, roughly the same height, same blue eyes and smile, and red hair a shade lighter than hers. Except Sansa’s hair isn’t red anymore, and Cat isn’t sure when it was that Sansa dyed it.

“I had the whole place to myself. Until he came towards the end of the week.”

Being lied to about her whereabouts over the whole of a break put Sansa in danger. It was irresponsible and thoughtless. But it isn’t anger Cat feels at this revelation. Her hands begin to shake in her lap, where she balls them to stop their visible quiver.

“What are you trying to tell me, sweetheart?”

“Things got out of hand. I don’t know. I was lonely and he was really nice. He gave me what sounded like really good advice about stuff,” she says on a sharp laugh. “He said he’d help make things easier for me. That’s about all it took. I stayed on there in his house after the end of break. I slept with him.”

Cat brings one fisted hand up to her mouth, holding back the scream that threatens to perforate her throat with its latent force.

Sansa’s voice is so small, when she says, “I should have known better,” that Cat almost can’t hear her over the roar that seems to have filled her head.

“He should have known better. He’s the adult,” Cat spits, her hand flexing before her face and closing tightly again just as quickly.

If he was here, if Petyr was here within her reaching grasp, she’d find plenty for her hands to do. She would claw his perfectly groomed face. Claw the smirk right off his face. Throttle him until he turned purple. Watch his head snap back and forth like a rag doll.

Sansa looks up, her eyes brimming with tears. “He called me your name. During.”

Cat is on her feet and moving towards the phone, her eyes cutting to the clock on the bedside table, when she feels Sansa’s hand close around her elbow. It doesn’t matter that it’s after nine or that Sansa jerks at her arm to stop her forward movement: she’s calling the school.

“Mama, don’t.”

“I’m calling the school,” Cat manages to say around the tightening in her throat.

“Don’t. Don’t do that. Please.”

Her daughter’s eyes are wide and pleading, but all Cat can think of is Petyr’s hands on Sansa. He sits at a desk in his office in his ivory tower, having taken advantage of her daughter with nary a consequence. He stole something from Sansa. Cat will see to it that something is taken from him too.

“The school needs to know who it is they have in that kind of position. They’ll fire him for this. It’s an abuse of his power to have…”

Cat can’t say the words. If she says them, she’ll start to scream and the last time she gave breath to screams like that, she thought she would never stop.

…

She never makes that call. It’s not a decision she’s completely comfortable with: her body burns with the need to lash out at him and the self control necessary to keep her from reaching for the phone is almost beyond her in her current state of unbalanced rage and exhaustion. But Sansa begged and her daughter’s tears stilled her hand. Sansa is no child. Someone needs to respect her wishes, and that’s what Cat intends on doing until she can figure how to ruin Petyr without endangering Sansa’s fragile mental health.

After talking for hours into the night with her daughter, after comforting and assuring and listening to the best of her ability, the only person she intends on discussing this twisted situation with before Ned comes home is Lysa—that’s the deal she made with Sansa. Lysa needs to know. On the off chance her sister is still in contact with Petyr, she needs to know exactly who he is and what he’s capable of. Cat can’t call the school and keep faith with Sansa, but she can do that much. She can and will protect the rest of her family from his machinations.

“What are you going to do about it?” her sister asks after the silence that follows Cat’s revelation of Petyr’s betrayal, of her impotent fury as a mother, and her need for her sister’s support.

“I wanted to call the school, Lysa.” I want to kill him for putting his hands on her, she thinks, as her teeth grind together.

“You can’t do that.”

Cat lets her head fall into the palm of her hand, pressing the phone to her ear that much harder, so as to be sure she’s heard right and that fatigue hasn’t stolen her hearing as well as blessed her with an eye twitch that pulls relentlessly at her right brow. “Repeat that?”

“You can’t call the damn university. You can’t tell them Petyr fucked your daughter in some weekend long affair in the Hamptons.”

Fucked. That stings. But what pretty word would better suit what Petyr did? There’s nothing appropriate that floats to the surface of her weary mind. She wouldn’t want Sansa to hear Lysa talk that way, but there’s little point in arguing with her sister over terminology.

Cat drags her fingers through her tangled hair, only half processing the content of Lysa’s manic prattle, as she continues to babble instructions. The pitch is high, the words too clearly enunciated for how quickly they come across the line. She sounds hysterical. Lysa has never been the most attentive aunt—she’s too wrapped up in her son to devote any attention to her nieces and nephews—so Cat doubts her reaction has much to do with Sansa. This is Petyr they’re talking about and that is the primary issue. Lysa is selfish enough that her outrage might be nothing more than proof that she’s taking the whole thing personally. Nothing more than Petyr Baelish choosing Cat or Cat’s daughter over her.

“For the love of God. If you would let me finish,” Cat says, cutting her off. “I’m not going to call. Sansa doesn’t want me to.”

“Of course she doesn’t,” Lysa snaps. “That would _expose_ her, wouldn’t it?”

It would. Sansa is afraid that if the school is informed, what happened between her and Petyr will end up splashed across the papers and the television. She fears being torn apart by talking heads, moralists, and gossips. It would be lovely if Cat could promise her no such thing would happen and they only need worry about doing what’s right. But she can’t. Sansa isn’t wrong to be worried. They are too high profile of a family and her father’s job is too prominent for something like this to go unnoticed. The media is relentless. They will dog her, making her relive everything that occurred. It could very become the next racy scandal to fill i[ the twenty-four hour news cycle. Sansa doesn’t want people to judge her in the court of public opinion. Cat doesn’t want that for her either. Petyr deserves those things. Sansa might have been a consenting adult, but he still took advantage of her in some kind of sick game. He deserves to be raked across the coals, he deserves to lose everything, but Sansa doesn’t. How can Cat risk putting her through anything else?

“We need to all keep away from him. That’s why I called you. So you’d know.”

“I’m not surprised. I wasn’t just dug up yesterday. This is just the kind of thing I’d have expected.”

Petyr might have slept with Lysa at Cat and Ned’s wedding and then never returned her calls after, but this is something else altogether. How could her sister have seen this kind of warped behavior on the horizon?

Cat scrunches her eyes closed, determined to finish the call despite the thundercloud that sends tendrils of lightening across her brain. “I have to ask you not to tell anyone.”

Lysa doesn’t give her an answer. The answer is the silence of a dead line.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon's upcoming chapter will conclude the Stark mini arc. The next arc features the Lannisters--Cersei, Jaime, Tyrion--and a smut fix. ;) I've got a month left to go before Baby Dram's estimated arrival. Let's see if I can knock at least that much out before he does make his appearance!


	26. Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon already wants to get better, but Sansa wanting it for him is something else altogether.

Chapter Twenty-Five: Jon

Jon’s door is open about a foot; his intention is to let anyone who might wander down know that they’re welcome to come in. Door open or door closed, Arya and Rickon would push their way in unannounced if they came looking for someone to play video games with or wanted to commandeer his television for a night of movie watching. But Sansa is much too polite to barrel in without a proper invitation.

She hardly needs one: he’s always glad to see her. Hearing her voice from behind the door perks him up like nothing else does. He calls to her to come in, pushing himself upright in the bed and sliding over to leave room on her side, as her head peeks around the door. They developed this routine a year ago. There’s his side and her side when they watch movies or sit in silence together reading or talking late into the night, and although he saw a lot less of her once she started her internship, it’s been easy to slip into familiar patterns with her now that she’s suddenly turning up in his room with greater regularity again.

She holds out one of Catelyn’s china plates before her piled high with iced doughnuts. “Hungry?”

“Watcha got there?” he asks, moving his laptop off his lap.

“Honey iced donuts,” she says, toeing off her shoes and stretching the plate out over the bed to hand it to him. Freed from her towering handful, she crawls into the bed on her knees, until her long, pale legs stretch out crossed at the ankles beside him. “I gave the holes to the boys. Maybe save one of these for Arya, but I made them for you.”

“Wait,” he says, setting the plate on the bed in the space between them, careful not to let them tumble onto the comforter. “You made these for me?”

He grabs for the top doughnut without hesitation, because dinner may have only been an hour or so ago, but he can always eat. She knows as much. 

“It’s nothing.”

“Shit,” he says around the first melting chunk. “Sorry. Doesn’t taste like nothing.”

They’re good. Dense and sweet and just greasy enough to be totally comforting the way the best junk food can be. If they weren’t quite so damn good, he might not have demolished the first one in two bites. He wishes he hadn’t, when he thinks of tonight’s dinner. Sansa admonished Rickon for bolting his food. It was the crumbs stuck in the corners of his half open mouth that drew his sister’s attention, and her correction elicited one of his dog like growls, all flashing teeth and curling lips. Jon isn’t quite as feral, but she would surely rule the size of his bites to be rude.

Sansa wouldn’t ever think to correct him the way she does her youngest brother, but there’s something other than disapproval in the quirk of her pink glossed lips, as she watches him.

Her eyes fall to her skirt, patterned with little yellow birds in flight on a sky of blue. “They’re cheater doughnuts. They only took a minute.”

That's bound to be at least something of an underestimation.

“It was a minute well spent,” he says, nudging the plate her way with the back of his hand. “See for yourself.”

“They’re for you,” she objects, though there’s a flicker of want in the blue of her eyes that makes his gut clench even though the look is directed at a dessert and not him.

“If I eat eight doughnuts, I’m gonna have to spend the next three days at the gym.”

“Wouldn’t that be a shame?” she asks, lips puckering, as she pinches the icing free rim of one teetering doughnut.

He coughs into his fist, icing tickling the back of his throat.

She subjects the doughnut to the same kind of inspection much of what is set before her is, but she must decide it’s worth the indulgence. At least mostly worth it. She tears it in half, putting one half back on the plate.

He knows better than to stare at her while she nibbles at it—the incident with the cake pop proved that testing the limits of his self control can easily result in a painfully sleepless night—so he grabs for another doughnut and focuses on being a different kind of pig.

“Thank you,” he says with a swallow.

“Can I borrow your laptop?” she asks, gesturing with the doughnut at the sleeping screen. “I really want to show you something.”

“Sure.”

People can get pretty uncomfortable about handing over their computers to be used by someone else. Personal electronics have become the pinnacle of sacred private property, but it’s not like he’s got anything incriminating on his. Even his internet history is boringly bland if she wants to take the trouble to search through it, and he hardly thinks that’s the case. She likes to send him links to kittens and puppies and recommendations for new novels she thinks he might enjoy, which is probably the type of thing she wants to show him now.

She pops the last piece of her half doughnut in her mouth and sucks on the pad of her thumb before reaching for the laptop. “Sticky fingers,” she says, as she wakes the computer back up with a flicking motion.

So much for not staring, Jon thinks, as he lifts the plate off the bed and places it on his bedside table, where he’ll be less tempted to eat a third in as many minutes.

“This isn’t just some excuse,” she says, drawing his attention back to the screen.

He squints, but he can’t read what she’s typed into the address bar without his glasses on. “An excuse for what?”

“Here,” she says, scooting closer to him, so they’re bumping hips and shoulders and he can see the screen as easily as she can, when she points at it.

“It’s not an excuse to get a puppy. There’s a good reason, and I’ve been researching it for a while now.”

“Your mom would flip. She’s got enough on her plate.”

They used to have nearly as many pets as kids running around the house, but it’s been a while since they had a dog bumping into tables and scratching the hardwood. The idea would go over like a lead balloon.

“I know, but it wouldn’t be her responsibility. We’d take care of it.”

It’s an odd use of the pronoun—we. As in him and her? Presumably not. She probably means it in the family dog way—we the Starks and one basement dwelling Jon Snow will take care of it. The law of collective responsibility, where the burden still ends up resting too much on the adults once the younger members of the family find something new to fixate on. Because couples get dogs together, not whatever it is he and Sansa are. Friends. Friends who live together and pretend they didn’t almost kiss that one time.

“Anyway, Mama wouldn’t mind if she knew what it was for,” she says, scrolling down the page to reveal one tiny, white puff of fur after another.

“What is it for?”

Puppies don’t really have a purpose. They just are, which is generally enough reason for people to fall for them.

“I’ve been reading about how dogs can be used to help people with PTSD. They can go with you anywhere and help you with your triggers.”

“Yeah?” he asks, frowning at the photo of a puppy on its back she’s stopped on. “You mean a support dog?”

“Exactly. They call them emotional support dogs. You’ve heard of them too?”

“A little.”

Based on what he knows, which isn’t much, it’s not widely approved as a form of therapy yet for his condition. Which means it isn’t something Sansa would likely run across, unless she was doing a broader inquiry into PTSD and all of its various treatments. She’s not kidding about doing her research.

A year ago, he might have taken that the wrong way. His episodes embarrassed him. They were something he wanted hidden, not discussed. When he couldn’t manage to keep them in check, he’d come back to himself with shame flooding his system, chest collapsing in under the weight of what felt like a million eyes staring in horror. Knowing that Sansa was poking around on the internet for information about PTSD would have convinced him that he’d made a spectacle of himself and become the focus of her kindhearted pity.

That isn’t what this is about, and he’s well enough now and knows her well enough that his reaction is miles away from what it would have been once. Too bad that reaction is a different kind of wrong. The urge to wrap his arm around her and pull her into his chest at this little reveal of hers sends his hand to his face to roughly scrub at his day old scruff, since sitting on his hands to stop their reach would be more than a little bit weird.

“Has your counselor talked to you about it? The VA is studying it. I can show you the articles I read.”

“No, nobody’s mentioned it. No point, I guess. They’re not handing out dogs to Vets.”

He hasn’t seen any roaming the halls outside his counselor’s office. It’s doubtful he will for how ever long it is he is forced to go there. The VA is slow to adopt new methods. They’re more likely to recycle old ones already discarded—like exposure therapy, his nemesis—than try something really innovative.

“That doesn’t matter. We could get one. See?” she says, moving a finger over one of the images as if to touch the puppy through the screen. “We don’t have to wait on them.”

“I don’t think this is the right kind of dog.”

“What, white and cute?”

They are cute. That might be part of why it’s hard to imagine what one of these things would do if he was in the middle of a full blown episode. Hop around on its hind legs and lick his fingers?

“Don’t discount them just because they’re adorable balls of fluff.”

The way he would have probably dismissed Sansa’s depth once. “Fair enough, but I’m pretty sure dogs have to be trained for that kind of thing regardless of size and cuteness.”

She wrinkles her nose, making the mouse circle over a wagging tail. “I know. But everybody benefits from having a pet. There’s been research on that too. It’d be good for you.”

There’s an unmistakable tenderness that underlies her insistence. Damn it, he wants to hold her.

“This _is_ an excuse to get a puppy. Busted, missy,” he says in a lowered voice.

Best to turn it into a lark, because her sweetness is making his heart pound and he can’t think about what it means to him to have her really concerned about him, to have her want him to get better and want to be someone that has a hand in making that a reality.

This close to her, where he’s forced to look at her in profile, he only can see a hint of the smile she fights, when she shakes her head. “I’m trying to do something nice for you.”

“Hey, doughnuts are plenty nice. You won the day on that one.”

“That’s hardly anything. I want to help you, the way you’ve helped me.”

He’s primed to deny having done any such thing, but a tumult of words that come out in one quick exhalation cut him off before he gets any further than opening his mouth.

“I wouldn’t have had the nerve to tell Mama what happened if you hadn’t been so nice to me about it.”

He knew if Sansa told her mother about the dean that Catelyn would understand. He promised her as much, but she was adamant about keeping it between the two of them at the time. Changing her mind on that point was for the best. It didn’t fix anything—it didn’t fix Petyr Baelish the way Jon would like to fix him—but it would be good for Sansa in the long run.

It took some guts too, considering that asshole was a personal friend of Catelyn’s. Which is why her reaction didn’t stop at motherly understanding. She was enraged if the little bit Sansa confided to him over a shared bag of popcorn that could have used butter—Sansa likes it plain and if he complained, she’d soak it with butter for his sake and go without—is anything to go by. Whatever violent thoughts Jon’s entertained since she confessed about the affair, he suspects Sansa’s mother’s easily rival them. Ned will be apoplectic. There’s a Stark dependence on righting wrongs and seeking justice, which will make this an even bitterer pill to swallow. It’s only Sansa’s reluctance to pursue the issue that has put the kibosh on anyone doing or saying anything further.

He waits to see if she’s finished or if she needs to say something more, but there’s only the sound of their breathing and the soft hum of the laptop’s fan.

“Can I say something?”

“No, you already said exactly what I needed you to say.”

She’s lived with what happened with that creepy fuck for over a year, letting it rattle around inside her brain with no one to talk to about it. She’s probably sick of the conversation, even if the conversation was an entirely one sided game of self incrimination and shame. He knows how that game goes.

The last thing he wants to do is force her to talk about it. He just wants her to know he wasn’t being nice or practicing platitudes the way he sometimes thinks people do with him, when they look to find something to say about the loss of his squad on his watch. What he said was simply the truth. What happened that weekend doesn’t make her a bad person or dumb or weak. Anyone that labels girls as slut is an asshole, and Sansa doesn’t deserve to be thought of that way. It doesn’t change how he thinks about her at all. She’s still the loveliest, kindest girl he’s ever known. Sick people love taking advantage of goodness like that.

They won’t talk about it if she doesn’t want to, but he needs her to know. “I meant it.”

She gives the smallest of nods, eyes still focused on the pictures, slowly scrolling up and down, only to stop on a particularly ridiculous example of puppy cuteness. It’s definitely not a support dog. Jon’s not certain he would even count these things as dogs—they’re more stuffed toys than anything else. But having one of them around, even if it peed on Catelyn’s rugs, would hardly make any of them smile less.

“They’re cute, but what are they called?” he asks, leaning into her enough that the laptop tilts in her lap.

“Bichon frisé.”

“I can’t spell that. What’s the name you’ve got picked out?”

“What makes you think I’ve got a name picked out?”

“A hunch.”

Last night Sansa convinced him and Arya that a movie was in order. A Disney movie, because they hadn’t marathoned a Disney movie in months. Sansa sometimes goes out with her work friend Mya, but she was in for the night and Arya was sulking about Gendry doing something that was _boys only_. No one was shocked to find that Jon was without plans, so he didn’t bother to feign reluctance. Really wild way to spend a Friday night, but hanging out with the girls appealed a lot more than trudging over to his favorite pub by himself. Arya was more irritable about the offer. Once Sansa’s pick was revealed to be  _Mulan_ , however, her insistence that she hated any and all Disney movies was spoiled by her rather shoddy job of hiding that she actually wanted to watch it. Knowing Sansa, she probably picked that movie precisely for that reason. But there’s not a Mulan in the group among these shots of pink bellied puppies.

“Let me guess: Snow White.”

“God, Jon,” she says on a laugh. “Only if you pick out a female.”

Her left hand reaches across her body to flip her hair over her shoulder. Some of it catches on his grey t-shirt, leaving silky strands stuck on his shoulder and chest.

It’s red. It’s been red since she came home from her internship yesterday. The salon did what she said was some tricky color correction to get it back to as close to her natural color as possible. It sounds like voodoo to him, but it obviously worked. It’s her shade all right. He’d say so, but he worries that’s not the kind of compliment a girl is looking for after sitting in a chair for a couple hours of _tricky color correction_. It’s not really a compliment at all, unless you know how pretty her shade of red is.

Sam is the only one he can talk to about women, and whenever he tries over Skype, it’s awkward and not terribly informative. Sam is happy with Gilly and has been for years. They have the kind of relationship Jon tries not to be envious of, but the fact they’re together at all has more to do with Gilly’s persistence than any lady killer skills Sam might possess. This leaves Jon with precisely no one to go to for advice about how to tell Sansa that he can’t stop thinking about how pretty her hair looks.

Jon always said whatever idiot thing came into his head with Ygritte. It worked well enough. She could be merciless in her teasing after he said some fool thing, but that was just Ygritte’s way. She didn’t want poetry and flowery phrases, which was a good thing for him. It’s different with Sansa. Sansa is a romantic. Sansa sighs over romantic movies and reads ooey gooey romantic fiction. Worse, she’s the girl who lives two floors up, the daughter of the man he thinks of as his father, sister of the kids who are siblings to him in all but name. Whatever he says to her is bound to be wrong. Either because she deserves the pretty turn of phrase he’ll never muster or because he shouldn’t ever think to say those words to her in the first place.

Which is precisely why this morning’s shower ended with him slamming his fist into the round handle, shutting off the water in pure frustrated agitation. Turning himself off was less successful. He never thinks about her like that. Ever. Won’t let himself even when she’s the face that drifts unconsciously across his mind’s eye as he falls asleep. He doesn’t like to think of Ygritte that way either, when his hand moves over his dick, because it feels like exhuming the dead for his own sorry purposes. But when he shut his eyes and let his head fall forward under the spray of the showerhead, there it was, sneaking in where he shouldn’t want it: long red hair, wrapped around his hand, slipping through his fingers, bright at the apex of white thighs.

It wasn’t Ygritte who twisted beneath him.

He brushes away the wayward locks, letting them fall back to join the cascading riot of red waves. “Your hair looks pretty. You look like yourself.”

Brunette suited her too. He would be hard pressed to think of a way Sansa could make herself unattractive. But she glows with a different kind of confidence with her old hair back. Like she’s been freed of the need to pretend to be someone else. It’s hypnotizing. He can’t be the only one to notice it.

When she turns to look at him, her eyes skim his face. It’s when they settle on his lips that he feels that tug that nearly got them both in trouble over the kitchen table in Michigan. The kind of trouble that would be so easy to fall right into again.

“Jon?” she says, her voice going up, as she wets her lips.

“Yeah.”

“I want us to be…”

If it’s possible to drown outside of water, Jon thinks he might from holding his breath while he waits for her to finish her thought, leaving him in suspended animation.

“I want us to be okay. I want us to be more than okay. I think we could be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lannister arc up next! Follow my tumblr [blog](http://www.justadram.tumblr.com) for sneak peeks and whatnot. If Baby Dram arrives ahead of schedule, I'll post about it there, so you all know what's up with updates.


	27. Cersei

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This connection between their bodies is the oldest and most natural connection Cersei has in times like these.

 Chapter Twenty-Six: Cersei

Cersei taps the toe of her heel impatiently against the concrete floor outside Jaime’s loft, waiting for him to open the door. There is only so much time left today before she needs to pick up Tommen, and she doesn’t want to waste it recklessly waiting out here in the cavernous hallway. Anyone might wander by and see her outside of her ex-husband’s place in the middle of the day. There’d be no convenient excuse to explain her presence here. Jaime never bothers to think of the danger inherent in that kind of carelessness. If he did, he would stop taking his time about answering the damn door, when he knows she’s coming over to see him.

When he finally does thrust open the door, it’s the first time she’s seen him since the accident and her eyes dart over him to make a quick appraisal of what kind of shape he’s actually in. The delay was purposeful. She couldn’t make herself go to the hospital and then once he was out, he didn’t bother to fulfill his custody arrangement for Myrcella, the only valid reason that might have brought them together. It’s not that he didn’t call at all: they just weren’t about the children. So Cersei ignored them, deleting his voicemails after listening to them a half dozen times. Hearing about the accident was bad enough. Thinking about it was almost unbearable, her imagination spinning lurid visions that turned her stomach. Which is why she doesn’t want to look, but she can’t help herself. Her eyes focus on the prosthetic hand hanging at his side, so that she can finally see how closely her fears match reality.

“It’s state of the art. Only the best fake hand on the market for the son of Tywin Lannister,” Jaime says, not bothering with any kind of greeting. He holds the door open wide but raises his other arm and braces it against the frame, effectively blocking her from entering. “Probably would have had it dipped in gold if that came as an option.”

He’s seen the shock on her face at the sight of it, but there’s nothing she can do to disguise it. No amount of imagining it can prepare her.

It probably is state of the art. It certainly isn’t what she was expecting. She pictured some kind of rubbery, immobile, and unnaturally smooth Halloween like prop that couldn’t hope to mimic the beauty of his strong, tanned hands. Instead, it’s black and shiny with metal joints. It looks like something out of a futuristic movie—the kind that frighten Tommen if the television is unintentionally left on a premium cable channel. It grips the door with fingers that are human in shape, but not in color or texture. There’s no saying what it would feel like against her skin, but it won’t feel right.

It’s change. The worst kind. When they were young, they were perfect. They were the best looking, the most beautiful, promising couple in the whole of New York. His arm was his ticket to fame. He was hers. This mechanical monster of a hand is a brutal reminder that nothing has turned out the way it was supposed to. Even if she still sits atop the social scene, it suddenly feels temporary. There are younger, prettier women, nipping at her heels. She thought it was only Sansa Stark she had to worry about outshining her in the society pages, but Joffrey’s newest trophy, Margaery, is as likely to steal the show as Sansa ever was.

It’s not only age that wears on her. Cersei’s position in society is threatened by Robert’s foolishness. Baratheon Industries is floundering. The Starks withdrew their support from her idiot husband. Jaime is half the man he once was. And Lannister Mercantile, her last hope to pull her family out of their downward spiral, is endangered not so much by the rumored coming loss of Jaime’s pathetic little brother, but by the looming death of the paragon of the family, Tywin. She is poised to be knocked off the throne she’s fought so hard for, and she’s in real danger of falling further down the ladder than where she started off. People know her too well, and with familiarity comes contempt. They’ll delight in her fall and laugh at her humiliation.

“Let me in.”

“Hello to you too,” he says, stepping aside. “To what do I owe this honor?”

He would insist on being impossible, when he knows what she’s here for. He always knows. They’ve always been in perfect sync in that way. Their bodies are in tune even when everything else about them couldn’t be more broken. With her life falling apart, she craves that oldest, most natural of connections. It’s the last hope she has of maintaining her sanity.

“I need you,” she says, tossing her clutch on his vast, empty dining room table. “Inside of me. Now.”

When she turns, he’s there at her hip, close enough that she can smell his aftershave. Her body presses into his, as she lifts her hands to wrap them around his neck and pull his face down to hers. He may have made her ask for it, but he doesn’t make her close the distance between his lips and hers. His kiss is searing, lighting her afire with just the rough press of his lips and the drag of his tongue.

“Fuck,” she pants, when he breaks off with a ragged breath, her lower lip caught between his teeth for a long moment, as if he won’t be giving it up.

Her fingers extend to card through his hair, a motion born of habit that is disrupted by his newly cropped hair. Instead of silky and fine, it has the rasp of velvet. Jaime’s other physical manifestation of change is more disturbing, but touching his ill advised haircut is much worse than having to look at it. It’s jarring.

“You like it?” he asks with a grin that looks as wide as a Jack-o’-lantern this close up.

She doesn’t like it at all. It makes him look older and less polished. It reminders her of a cancer survivor shorn of his hair. No small loss, when you have hair as nice as Jaime’s. She always thought his hair was as beautiful as her own even when it was sweaty and sticking out from under a baseball cap. Now it barely even qualifies as blond. Cropped this close to his head, its dull looking and unremarkable—something he has no right to ever be.

Yet another reminder that they aren’t what they once were. Yet another reason to contemplate her fate and feel the cold reach of mortality creeping up on them both with each passing year.

She doesn’t look like a teenager. She probably can’t pass for someone in her twenties either. That was a time when everything was still in the right place and there were no papery thin lines visible under harsh lighting. Nothing marred her perfection. When it was written that she was the most beautiful woman in New York, it was no exaggeration. She hasn’t seen that compliment paired with her name in the papers for years now, although she’s only thought recently to notice the absence.

With her clothes off and her face scrubbed free of makeup, the changes are obvious enough to her. They must be obvious to others too, though Jaime would never think to point them out. It isn’t tact, though he can be charming when he puts his mind to it. It’s that to him, she’ll always be as beautiful as she once was. He doesn’t notice the march of time across her body.

She can’t help but notice it on his. At least his hair can grow back. His hand never will.

“Nothing to hold onto,” she says, scratching her nails over his scalp.

Nothing to tug. Nothing to guide his head where she wants it between her legs.

“But a hell of a lot easier to deal with when you only have one hand.”

She grimaces. “Less talking.”

His bed is wide and soft, but despite only being a few steps away, his bedroom feels too far to make the comfort worthwhile after she’s waited all this time to be with him. Her patience has been worn thin by worry, and in a rash rush to have him, she walks him backward the couple of steps to his table, her fingers digging into his hips through the wool of his pants with one commanding word, “Here.”

Usually he likes to undress her, revealing her skin and marking it as his own with determined purpose, but after only a moment of awkward fumbling, she realizes that won’t be happening today. His prosthetic might be cutting edge technology, but that does him little good if he hasn’t mastered it. He’s probably been shirking on practicing with it, the way he has shirked his duties as father and son, avoiding his children and work, while he holed up in here, taking much too long to come back to her. That leaves her to handle things—the children, this impossible situation with the Starks, and now divesting herself of clothes. Off come her blouse and bra, skirt and shoes, and finally her black, lacy thong. She kicks them off with only a passing thought to the huge industrial windows that line the far walls. Hopefully no one makes a practice of staring across the street into Jaime’s loft.

The removal of both their clothing might have been too much for him to manage—he barely can undress himself—but he still lifts her with the strength of old. His hands—one real and warm, the other distractingly not—hoist her up by her thighs and nudge them wider apart, exposing her wetness to the chill of the air conditioning. The wooden topped table is even colder and unyielding under her bare ass, but at least it’s clean. No one ever eats here. Might as well serve a better purpose, she thinks, as she tugs him forward by the waist of his boxer shorts, the elastic giving before he gives in too, following her pull.

His left hand is less sure, when it parts her folds, dragging her arousal up to her clit, but she finds she doesn’t much care when she pushes his head down to her breasts. The warm latch of his lips on her nipples, hardening under his attentions, is enough to distract her from what feels wrong. And then his long fingers slip inside of her, curling, stroking, making obscenely wet sounds, and she begins to beg, letting herself sound weak in a way she won’t under any other circumstances.

“Oh, _please_.” Her hands paw at his hips, shoving his boxers lower. They catch on his hard dick, swollen and ready for her, making it spring back between them. “Hurry.”

Her losses are forgotten and the widening chasm of change closes with a blink, when he pushes inside of her. He’s blunt and thick and perfect. Their thrusts meet without faltering; their hearts beat as one, as she runs a hand over his solid chest and then up over the short bristle of his hair without thought to how it should feel long and silky beneath her touch. This is where he belongs. With her lips whispering against his ear, she tells him as much, urging him on, pushing him to fuck her harder, faster until his moan sounds low and desperate and she’s tightening around him with her head falling back, mouth open in imminent release.

When the shocks of her orgasm begin to slow, he lowers her onto the table with his dick still buried inside of her. Her back is flat, as he works in and out of her, his eyes trained on where they meet in a hot, messy slap of flesh. The one hand left to him clutches her hip, keeping her from being driven back along the table with the snap of his hips. He doesn’t curl over her, pressing their chests together, until he comes, pulsing inside of her with a growl.

As her breathing slows, she can feel it falling out of the perfect rhythm she’d effortlessly achieved with him. His breath ghosts over her shoulder in warm puffs, less comforting and more annoying as the difference in their inhale and exhale becomes more obvious. Before he ever angles his hips to let his dick slide free of her, too soon they are slipping from each other, and the realities of the world creep back in. Soon even her muscles will once again be bunched with the concerns she carries alone.

She sits up, pushing him off her chest to reach for her discarded bra, where it lays draped half off the table. She can feel Jaime’s eyes on her, as he drags one of the upholstered, grey dining chairs from under the table and flops down in it with his legs spread wide. She slips the bra over one shoulder and then the other, eager to be covered up as quickly as possible, because Jaime’s eyes are one thing, but they’re not exactly ensconced in privacy here.

“Fucking like this in front of open windows was stupid. We have to be more careful.”

“If we can’t even have sex at my place without worrying about some busybody watching us, something is seriously wrong. We need to leave. Get the hell out of this city.”

She slips off the table and bends down for her skirt and thong. “That’s always your solution, isn’t it?”

“We’ll take Myrcella and Tommen. Go somewhere warm. Tommen loves the beach.”

Tommen doesn’t even know how to swim, despite hours of lessons. But of course Jaime wouldn’t know that. It’s precisely this kind of disinterest that normally makes him fail to include Myrcella and Tommen in his romanticized plans for escape. That he mentions them this time shows just how desperate he’s become. There’s still no sense in his island hopping suggestion, however.

“We’d be at each other’s throats fighting in two days.”

They’d fight over his lack of ambition and how he wastes the gifts his name bestowed upon him. Paired with his childish romanticism, these unattractive tendencies do nothing to help her or their children.

“Making up after our fights is one of the best parts. Marry me.”

She shimmies her thong up her thighs, one brow arched at him. “Don’t be idiotic. We tried that and we’re divorced in case you forgot.”

“Hardly. You couldn’t be bothered to come see me. It’s been months.”

“That’s not my fault.”

He huffs, dragging his hand over his closely cropped hair as if he’s forgotten it’s no longer there to fuss with.

“My blouse,” she says, nodding at the blouse by his feet, while zipping up her skirt.

He snatches it up and tosses it to her, though he makes no move to cover himself, making a spectacle of himself naked at the table. She turns the silk over in her hands, frowning at the creases under the bust of the blouse. It looks as if Jaime trod on it.

“I have to think of Tommen,” she says, turning her back to the bank of windows, the only defense she has against prying eyes. “Dashing over here because you were hurt would have looked funny.”

“You’re still trying to save that failing company for him?”

“Yes. That’s my job.”

“From what you’ve told me, he’d be better off playing second fiddle to Joff at Lannister Mercantile.”

The difficulty with that reasoning is that Lannister Mercantile might not be a sure thing either. If Jaime’s marriage proposal is a real one, and not merely dopamine induced sex ramblings, it isn’t the life saver she needs. Jaime can’t be counted on to save his father’s company, which means he can’t be counted on to save Joffrey’s inheritance either.

“You’re going to an awful lot of trouble, all this business with the Starks, when it seems a lot more likely that he’ll want to be a vet tech, not a business tycoon.”

Ignoring his too accurate assessment of Tommen’s personality, she kicks his boxers over to him. “Have you gone to see your father?”

“No. Not yet,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest.

“You should.”

Tywin’s been in the hospital for nearly forty-eight hours. If he was her father, she’d be there, sitting at his side, keeping vigil. As nothing more than a former daughter-in-law, however, she can get very little information on Tywin’s condition. If Jaime has yet to visit his father, he might at least know something more than her, something that might put at least one of her worries to rest.

“Do you know anything?”

“They’re doing what they can. It’ll take time to know more. More tests to run or something along those lines.”

Tywin had a stroke. It sounds as if it was serious. The word ‘massive’ was used on the morning news, but the media can’t be trusted. It can’t be as bad as they’re saying. Tywin is too strong.

“Whatever they’re doing, it’s not enough,” she says, as she looks down at herself and realizes she skipped a button on her blouse, leaving one side hiked up higher than the other as her fingers approach her breast bone.

She unbuttons the four buttons already buttoned to start over, hands beginning to shake as the exhausting calm of sex begins to wear off more quickly than she would like.

“I don’t know. He’s got the top doctors. That’s got to count for something.”

“He’s not supposed to get sick.”

In all her visions of Joffrey taking over, picturing Lannister Mercantile without Tywin overseeing things never occurred to her. He’s the kind of man who could convince you that immortality is possible for those with enough willpower to seize it for themselves. It was a comfort to think of him always being there.

“I wouldn’t worry about it. I’m still convinced he’ll live forever,” Jaime says, echoing her thoughts, as he finally gives in and sticks a foot through one leg of his boxers.

“But he’s not, which means you need to get down to Lannister Merc and find out what is going on with your brother.”

He looks up from his perch on the chair, lifting his hips to pull his boxers over his ass. “I have a feeling you think you know what’s going on with Tyrion.”

She has her sources, and what she’s heard isn’t good.

“He’s going to leave and take way too much insider information with him. He’ll ruin everything. You have to stop him.”

“How do you imagine I’ll do that?”

“I don’t care how.”

He stands, and though his arm ends in a mechanical prosthetic, the rest of his body is as flawless as ever, having been spared the ravages of childbirth and gifted with enough time to spend ample hours in a gym. With the elastic band of his boxers ending just beneath the sharp outline of his hips, there is very little to obscure the beauty of his body from view. From her view or the neighbors.

“It’s his family’s business too, Cersei, and he’s worked hard there. I don’t see why he would want to destroy it.”

She purses her lips and stuffs the ends of her blouse into her skirt with hurried furry at his continued nonchalance. “To spite me. To spite Joffrey. To make more money somewhere else, so he can keep tossing it at that whore of his.”

“Tyrion isn’t your biggest fan, but he’s my brother. He wouldn’t do anything to endanger our family.”

“He already has. Who do you think is responsible for your father being in the hospital?”

“I’m no doctor, but I didn’t think it was a who that put him there. I thought it was a what. A blood clot.”

She grabs for her clutch and flips open the envelope closure, where a mirror is affixed. Dragging her finger along the smeared line of her lips, she puts herself back together, ready to meet the world again with her armor put in order.

“It’s the rumors, Jaime. Your father has been worrying about these rumors surrounding your worm of a brother. If, God forbid, your father dies, Tyrion will have as good as killed him.”

Jaime shakes his head. “You’re acting like a hysteric.”

“Is that right?” she asks, snapping the clutch closed again.

“You didn’t used to be this paranoid.”

“You’ve changed too.”

“I’m more aware of that than you’ll ever be,” he says, twisting his prosthetic before him.

He’s more concerned with his loss than the future of his children.

“You scare me, sitting here in this apartment, doing nothing. You don’t care about anything.”

“I care about you.”

The beauty of undressing herself was that she was mostly spared from having to focus on how he could barely undress himself, though she still saw hints of his bumbling through her lashes. How he struggled over his mother of pearl shirt buttons and how the belt caught twice before he successfully worked the buckle.

She slips into her heels, regaining enough height that she is eye to eye with him. When she looks at him, she feels like she’s seeing him for who he is for the first time. They’re not the same. They’re fundamentally different. It isn’t only the hand holding him back—he could overcome the hand if he wanted to. There’s more to it than that. He’s pathetic, and she isn’t a woman who could love someone like that.

“I need you to care about more than that.”


	28. Jaime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being bossed around is one of Jaime's least favorite things, but his physical therapist takes no interest in coddling his various character flaws.

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Jaime

“Lannister,” Brienne says sharply enough that he drops the ball she’s been having him squeeze in mind numbing repetition.

“Fuck,” he curses, feeling the eyes of several fellow patients settle on him.

This is why he hates coming to Blackwater Rehab: it’s too public a place. It exposes how useless his new hand is, despite being the best prosthetic money can buy and a cutting edge example of technology. Brienne has stubbornly refused to come to his loft for even one more therapy session, however, and schedules his appointments with his skinny assistant, Peck, without reference to his preferences. Which brings him to this echoing, sweaty smelling, grey box of a place three times a week, where people can gawk whenever he drops a stress ball. Happens that he drops them with great frequency.

“Pick it up,” she instructs in that rough, gym coach tone of hers that should require a shiny whistle to hang from her freckled neck at all times. “And watch your language.”

There’s little he likes less than being bossed around, so he reaches for his uncapped stainless steel water bottle instead with the only hand left to him and drinks deeply. Squeezing that damn ball is hard, but not the kind of hard that requires intense hydration. Still, drinking gives him something to do with himself while the other patients in the room pretend to go back to not noticing that Jaime Lannister, former playboy and permanent cripple, is struggling to get a grip on a blue rubber ball a few feet away from them. Which is why he drains half of it while she stares at him.

“Your mind is somewhere else,” Brienne observes, her mouth turning down in a monstrous frown.

Her expression only makes her unfortunate face even more painfully unattractive, stretching her large mouth and thick lips across the lower half of her face until it looks like her maw might consume the whole of it. There’s not much she could do to improve her appearance. Hulking around in gym shorts and a sweatshirt draws attention to her oversized, athletic frame in a way most women wouldn’t want, but it’s hard to imagine her wearing anything else to greater effect. A dress would look ridiculous on her. So would long hair or the barest, most natural application of cosmetics. Heels would turn her into a giantess, when she already stands a couple inches taller than him.

She’s an original, what anyone would call ugly in spite of her striking blue eyes, but she’s also not a complete idiot. At least, she isn’t wrong about his current state of distraction.

His mind is with Cersei, whether he likes it or not. For more than a week his thoughts have obsessively fixated on her. That he spends a good portion of his day thinking about her and wanting to be with her is nothing new, but he’s never felt more hopeless about their chances together. He thought it was painful when she failed to come see him in the hospital. He thought he felt the loss of her as acutely as the loss of his hand when she didn’t bother to call. Those things were bad, but this is worse.

He could fool himself at the time into believing that the separation was temporary. He pinned his pathetic hopes on the fact that they would eventually be reunited as they had been in the past. Finally seeing her, however, destroyed all his fucking hopes, stripping him of his delusions.

Parting words— _We can’t ever do this again_ —cruelly thrown over her shoulder as she left his loft altered his world forever. How pathetic is it that she doesn’t even want to fuck him anymore? Threats from her are hardly novel, but even after their divorce she never threatened that.

It’s the hand. Or rather, his useless goddamn prosthetic. It has to be. He saw the way she looked at it. The disgust was palpable. It curled her lip and wrinkled her brow. He could feel it rolling off of her in waves until she schooled her gaze elsewhere. She used to direct that look at her fat fuck of a husband. Now Jaime’s had the painful experience of having it aimed squarely at him.

There’s an option available from the company that makes his prosthetic that supposedly would make it look more lifelike. It’s a synthetic glove like accessory you pull on over the prosthetic itself. Prior to his stroke, his father urged him to get it, probably in the hope that the glove will make his son’s disfigurement less glaringly obvious to anyone who finds themselves in the offices of Lannister Mercantile expecting to find Lannister like levels of perfection in the eldest son.

Skittish investors aren’t the only ones that need to be soothed by illusion. Except Jaime can’t picture Cersei allowing him to touch her golden skin with a rubbery paw. He emailed Tyrion a link to the company site to see what he thought of the thing. There’s a reason his brother dubbed the glove option the Cyborg Package.

“So what if I am distracted?” he says, setting the water back down with a smack of his lips. “I didn’t think it took any heavy mental lifting to squeeze a ball.”

His right hand was the best part of him. For some people it might seem dehumanizing to think of oneself as a patchwork of parts of differing value, but Jaime’s loss has forced him to face more than one unpleasant reality. His brother has his brain. His father a spine like steel. All Jaime had was that hand.

Coaches, scouts, parents, they all called him a phenom at age fourteen, when his fastball regularly clocked in around one hundred miles per hour. His arm made him the youngest starting pitcher to take his team to state, but his arm wasn’t just fast. It’s not completely unheard of to be fast even at that tender age. That’s not what made him special. What’s really challenging is controlling that kind of speed, and he had more control over it than he rightly should have. Rookies in the Majors don’t necessarily have that level of control, and for him, it all came so easily and so young.

A squishy ball stamped in gold ink with Blackwater Rehab that only requires a steady squeeze to earn him a pat on the back for a job well done? That should be child’s play. Tommen, who is the least athletically inclined of their children, could squeeze this ball all day long without dropping it and still keep his eyes glued to Peppa Pig.

Sometimes Jaime thinks he’d rather have a hook. At least then he could pull out the pirate jokes, which for some reason come to mind more readily than the robot ones better suited to his current mechanical attachment. He is a failure with his prosthetic and a failure at robotic humor.

“It doesn’t take brains at all,” Brienne says.

“Good. Wouldn’t bode well for my progress if it did, since they say I’m the stupid brother.”

He rolls his eyes as she bends over to retrieve the ball, after he’s shown no inclination to do so himself, arms crossed over his chest in defiance. It’s so boring when she refuses to rise to the bait and ignores his commentary. The least she could do in return for dragging him here against his will would be to indulge him every once and awhile. Mouthing off is one of the only things he can still reliably do with any kind of success.

“You don’t need brawn either,” she says, straightening up. “What you need is practice. Lots of it.”

“That’s what I’m here for. Rain or shine. Very dutifully.”

Otherwise Peck repeatedly calls his cell, setting off an irritating buzz which interrupts Jaime’s busy schedule of staring at the walls of his loft and feeling sorry for himself.

“Not just when you’re here. I can tell you haven’t been doing the exercises I wrote out for you or you’d be progressing more quickly than this. Don’t waste my time or yours, Lannister,” she says, nudging his arm with her knuckles until he lets his prosthetic drop to his side.

It’s humiliating to have her standing there, insistently jabbing him with the ball, so he lifts his hand to take it from her. He can pretend that was his intention all along, when what he really wants to do is petulantly stand here with both arms pressed to his sides. The problem is, she’s pigheadedly stubborn. Perhaps more so than he is. It’s why she’s as good as she is at what she does. Doggedly forcing people to do the things they either don’t want or find too painful to do is part and parcel of being a physical therapist. If she had a clue just how good she really is—and she doesn’t, because she’s all bumbling awkwardness and low self-esteem—he’d be in real danger of being strong-armed into accomplishing something. But then, he’s already not really safe on that front, so it’s best to acknowledge that any attempt to outlast her resolve is likely to only prolong this torture.

“I’ve got nothing but time,” he assures her, though he gives the ball a test squeeze to ease the frown lines that crease her forehead. “You glad to hear it?”

“Why would I be?”

“Because I’m beginning to think I’m your favorite patient. That you’ve got a real sweet spot for me. Like having me hanging around.”

She flushes a dark red, obscuring the freckles that dot the bridge of her nose and cheeks. “I’m just doing my job. I am contractually obligated to work with you.”

If she wasn’t so obviously shy, he’d try something a little more provocative to win her over. _You sure you don’t enjoy torturing me, sweetheart? A kink of yours?_  That will not do. But it can’t hurt to try a little charm. Especially when she seems inclined to blush at the suggestion she might not hate him as much as she would like him to think.

“If it’s just the matter of a contract, I can pay off the bill and we can forget the rest,” he suggests with his most winning smile.

“That’s not how it works, Lannister.”

“On the contrary, we Lannisters are exceptionally good about settling our bills. No one would want to do business with us if we weren’t, because we’re to the last man remarkably shitty people.”

She could protest, but she doesn’t. “We have a half hour left. Start over from the first set of reps and focus this time,” she says as prim as a schoolmarm.

His black and silver fingers curl around the blue ball. “Yes, ma’am. Although, I promise you, I’m a blank slate. I have nothing else of note to focus on,” he lies with a grimace, when the ball starts to slip from his grip.

She pokes the ball back into the cradle of his hand with her index finger. “If you find yourself without anything to do, there’s no reason you can’t go back to work.”

It’s not the first time she’s reminded him of that fact. There’s nothing in his patient chart that should prevent him from returning to the majority of his regular activities is how she phrased it previously. It’s a clinical enough assessment of his disability to make him want to heave.

“That might be the case, but I have very little interest in whiling away my time at Lannister Mercantile.”

“If that’s your attitude, you don’t deserve your position there.”

“I never claimed to deserve it, but it’s not the plum of a job you might imagine it to be. It happens to be the kind of place where you walk out a worse person than you walked in that morning .”

“It’s a job,” Brienne says, arching her bushy, straw colored brows.

“Oh, and think of the unemployment rates, huh?”

“You could try to think of someone other than yourself. It could do you some good.”

“No lectures, please. It’s distracting.”

He punctuates his assertion with a particularly solid squeeze and then opens his fake palm wide, demonstrating what he hopes is a rather impressive display of control over this thing.

She lifts her chin at his stilled hand. “Two more sets.”

“I swore it was only just the one left. Can you count?”

“Two,” she repeats, widening her stance and placing one large hand on each hip.

She’s a big woman, but she lacks curves entirely. No breasts. Nothing rounding out her hips. No ass to grip. Even her legs are thickly muscled, not what you could call shapely. She’s as different from Cersei as night is from day. As inexorably focused as he’s been on Cersei of late, it’s easy to get caught up in the comparison and trace each and every disparity with hawk like attention. It would be strange to fuck a woman as big as her.

She catches him staring and snatches her notebook off the table, where it rests by his water bottle, awaiting whatever notations she deems necessary for today’s session. Her hands fumble with her cheap ballpoint pen, and for a second he thinks she might drop it, but she recovers from the bobble more swiftly than he’s currently capable. He would have dropped the stupid thing. And forget writing. His signature looks like a drunken chicken scratch.

“You’re even more difficultthan usual today,” she says, as her pen moves over the paper. “Something uh…”

He cocks his head to the side and prods, “Yes?” when she seems incapable of finishing.

“Did something happen?” she finally manages without looking up from her task.

It’s what he would probably categorize as a friendly inquiry. It could pass as concern, which is strange, because they usually deal exclusively in insults. She hated him right off the bat, as many people do, his reputation proceeding him. He made it a practice to be just as virulent in his dislike of her. That’s their thing. He’s not sure what to make of this change in tactics. It’s almost as if she’s interviewing for the position of friend as opposed to physical therapist. He’s never attempted a friendship with a woman, though Brienne is no average woman.

“You want to hear about the sordid details of my personal life?”

“No,” she says with a quick shake of her head. “No, I certainly don’t.”

“Smart woman.” She looks up at that for the briefest of moments with a quick blink. “I can promise you it would be more sordid a tale than you are interested in.”

“I thought it might have something to do with your father.”

“Oh.” His father, who still lingers in the hospital hooked up to monitors with doctors scurrying around his bedside while he shits himself. Yes, it could be that, maybe even should be, but it isn’t. “No. More like my ex-wife.”

“That’s none of my business,” she says, shoulders stiffening visibly beneath her grey sweats as she continues to jot something down.

“But hey, that’s something of an accomplishment if I’ve managed to outdo my own usual level of patient intractability, my lack of progression elsewhere notwithstanding.”

“Your slacking off with your therapy? It’s nothing to be proud of.”

He ooh’s back at her, brows knit together in a theatric display of false pain. “That hurts.”

“It should. Everyone knows all the potential you had. As a ballplayer,” she adds, closing her notebook with a dull snap. “They say you could have been the best.”

“Could have been doesn’t count for much. There’s nothing to say in the record books about me. My injury years ago saw to that,” he says, twisting the prosthetic until the ball tips out of his hand and she is forced to make a grab for it mid fall.

She’s quick and it has no chance of hitting the floor. Kind of has the look of a softball player about her too with her wide shoulders and thick neck, which makes him wonder if she ever played. It wouldn’t surprise him in the least if she could have given him a run for his money back in the day on the mound. They would have had to let her play with the boys. Hardly would have been fair otherwise.

“Now they don’t have anything nice to say about you.”

No, the tabloids are not kind. He has a reputation, hardly a sterling one, and while he pretends that it doesn’t bother him, the thought of a gossip filled legacy being his only legacy, when he dreamt of the life of a hero, is a bitter pill to swallow.

“Why should they, when there’s this,” he says, tilting the prosthetic under the glare of the artificial lighting overhead, “to add to my list of failures?”

With one hand still clutching the ball, she tucks her notebook into her chest the way insecure girls that wanted to hide their tits or lack thereof did in junior high. Lack in her case.

“You’re going to let your accident stop you?”

“You act like I’ve got some choice in the matter. I can’t even grip a ball, much less toss one.”

“Forget baseball. It doesn’t have to be a ball. Doesn’t have to be your father’s company. You can find something to do, and then work at being the best at it.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” he says with a snort. “Kind of a vague pep talk though, coach. Let me know when you come up with something specifically I can actually do.”

She blinks back at him, her blue eyes devoid of the sparkle he’s sometimes seen there.

“We done for the day?” he asks, rocking back on his heels.

“You seem to think we are.”

“Good. We are.”

Or at least he is. He’s done with everything. He was a ballplayer, he was Cersei’s, and now he’s nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more Lannister to go with Tyrion up next. And then Dany. If I make it that far before Baby Dram makes his arrival... Check [tumblr](http://www.justadram.tumblr.com) for updates.


	29. Tyrion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion's burned his bridges at Lannister Mercantile and now he needs Barristan Selmy and his niece more than makes him entirely comfortable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I posted a picture of the inspiration for Tyrion's Chelsea apartment [here](http://justadram.tumblr.com/post/102016174240/the-upcoming-chapter-of-a-city-begins-in-tyrions), complete with bookcases and fine things. I occasionally do such things. If that's of interest to you, you can [follow me](http://www.tumblr.com/follow/justadram). You can also pop by to say hello, fangirl with me, or nudge me about upcoming chapters. Any and all are welcome.

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Tyrion

There’s a call Tyrion wants to make before he heads over to Barristan & Rakharo Investments. One more person he wants in his pocket before he attempts to convince Barristan Selmy that they need him more than he needs them. Dany Targaryen is arguably the most important person to have in his corner, despite the fact that she's not in the employ of her uncle. But there’s no guarantee she’ll even take his call. Not after their last interaction, when she made it pretty clear she didn’t appreciate his opinions about her over the top fundraiser or her ridiculously misguided charity.

His iPhone sits before him on the glass coffee table, set on speaker so that he can lie prone on his couch, face smashed into the red cushions to keep the light of the morning sun from slicing through his eyelids. Even with the blinds closed, the light that sneaks through is oppressive after a late night out with Shae, where he drank more than his share of the wine Shae ordered over dinner, bottle after bottle. Coffee would have been a nice curative to wake up to, but Shae isn’t the domestic sort. Waking up to her legs straddling him would have been even nicer, except she was gone when he rolled over in bed, his mouth tasting putrid and his stomach churning. It’s not the first time he’s woken up alone after a night spent together. She’s been harder to pin down lately, leaving him more than a touch frustrated. Her behavior might have something to do with his current preoccupation with saving his own skin by getting on with Barristan's firm. 

Without caffeine or an energizing round in the sheets with his favorite black haired beauty, he’ll need a hot shower and a few more minutes with his eyes squeezed shut tight if he has any chance of being presentable for his meeting with Barristan. He can’t talk to Dany from a steaming shower, but he can keep his eyes shut in a poor imitation of sleep without her being the wiser. As the phone rings, however, he immediately regrets placing it on speaker, as the metallic sound of each ring cuts right through his pounding head.

On the fourth ring, she picks up, putting an end to the mild form of torture, and while she has no idea who it is on the other end and he’s just some random number to her, her gentle, feminine voice doesn’t betray the sharpness he knows it is capable of, when she says hello.

To give her an appropriately unmuffled reply, he has to turn his head to the side and push with his hands to lift himself up. “Good morning.”

A lie—so far there’s not a whole lot about this morning he would consider good—but a necessary nicety in everyday communication.

“Who’s speaking?”

“Tyrion Lannister,” he says, although his voice is croaky enough that anyone who knew him would doubt the veracity of that statement. He sounds like an imposter. A bad one. “Please don't hang up.”

Tyrion fears that the ominous pause that follows indicates that he’s already been dismissed with a thumb click, but when he opens his right eye, his phone is still lit up. She has left the door open a crack, and all he can do is shove a foot in to keep it that way.

“How did you get this number?” she asks, her voice finally sounding suitably annoyed.

He rolls onto his side, rubbing his gritty eyes with closed fists, composing himself as best he can for the negotiation to follow. That he has somehow acquired her number is no doubt a nasty bit of news to swallow. To convince her she’ll want to save it to her phone and make good use of it in the future will be no small task.

“It was quite a feat,” he says, fist to his mouth as he clears his throat. “I endured a sizable dose of humiliation in my efforts to lay claim to this number.”

Including a lengthy conversation with the thick headed Jorah Mormont. He’s not sure he’ll ever forget how he practically had to get down on his knees with that man. Lannisters don’t beg, but Tyrion did whatever he felt necessary to get in touch with Ms. Targaryen. Despite the scraping and groveling, Jorah refused.

Not everyone was as faithful in protecting Dany’s contact information. Her hairdresser, Illyrio—a large man with an outrageous mustache and beard—was helpful in identifying who might be worked upon. Not without promising him something of course. In return for his tip, Tyrion agreed to help the man out if he ever did get on at Barristan & Selmy. It turned out that one of Dany's blue haired boyfriend’s band mates, one Ben Plumm, was willing to open his address book for the right price. Anyone can be had for a price.

“Humiliated? Poor thing.”

Dany is known for being softhearted, but this is nothing but blatant sarcasm. He is the last person in the world that she would feel sorry for.

“Just so you understand the severity of the situation.”

“As much as I like the idea of you being put in your place, I don’t have time for this.”

Her voice is clipped. From the sound of it, he’s lucky she’s giving warning before terminating this little chat.

Tyrion sits up with a groan, peering with bleary eyes down at the phone to see what time it is. He hardly has time for this call either. His appointment is fast approaching and traffic is a bitch around Barristan’s offices.

“I know you’re busy, Ms. Targaryen, but I’d appreciate a few minutes of your time.”

“Quick then. What do you want?”

“A chance to help you. A partnership. A mutually beneficial friendship.”

“You want to be _friends_?”

He smiles to himself. She’s probably accustomed to a better looking cast of characters surrounding her. Younger too with the exception of Jorah Mormont. He’s a rather unlikely suspect for Dany’s stable of followers, which oddly gives Tyrion hope that she might be convinced to accept him too. As the Lannister empire’s foundation begins to crumble, Dany—with her European pedigree and impressive bank account—is in a good position to dominate the New York scene beyond being the social darling of the fashion blogs and tabloids. Tyrion’s last name might be Lannister, but if he could attach himself to her rising star, he might overcome the increasing liability of that surname and carve out some real success for himself for the first time.

“The fact that I was able to get this number should demonstrate that you need better friends.”

“Why don't you start by telling me who gave you this number then?”

“Because I’m loyal to the people who help me,” he says, unrolling the sleeves of his velvet robe to better cover his wrists. There’s a nip in the air this morning, and if he had the energy, he’d light his fireplace to chase away the cold. But he needs to save what little energy he has for convincing Barristan that he’d be a loyal employee, one that even Barristan’s niece has begun to trust.

“I bet. Water finds its level.”

“Despite that dig, I’d be loyal to you too.”

“Is that what you want me to tell my uncle?”

Tyrion grabs for his phone and takes it off speaker before pressing it to his ear. “So you’ve heard the rumors.”

The buzz surrounding his potential move from Lannister Mercantile increased after his father’s stroke. Most of that has to do with Cersei’s claims that it was Tyrion’s impending departure that put his father in the hospital. Cersei won’t shut up about it, spewing her nasty brand of bitchiness to anyone who will listen. It's all been done behind his back. He’s avoided appearing at any functions where he might run into her, so she won’t have a chance to publicly defame him. That’s about the only thing he can do until he has a new job and new, more powerful friends to back him.

For the time being there’s really nothing anyone can do to muzzle her. Any moderating influence Jaime might have had on her is done with now that they haven’t seen each other in months. Good news for Jaime, although shitty timing for Tyrion. Their father is in no condition to rein her in either. She's completely rudderless, and while she’s always accused Tyrion of being a joke, but she’s the one who is left to act the fool now. The meddling bitch.

Her obsession with maligning her ex husband’s brother is beginning to appear desperate to even the most ardent supporter of Robert’s wife, but she’s still the wife of the largest weapons manufacturer in the country. She still has the power to make problems for Tyrion. To leave his family’s firm and join a new one was never going to be easy, but her witch hunt has made a difficult situation exponentially worse. He blames her petty campaign against him for the reason he hasn’t made the kind of headway he’d like with Barristan. The old man is as reluctant as ever to accept Tyrion into the firm, despite months of his best efforts to ingratiate himself.

Which is precisely why he needs Dany in his corner. His ultimate triumph depends on her. It's a rather precarious position to be in.

“I’ve spoken with my uncle. He told me about your plans.”

Tyrion hears her swallow or maybe it’s just the sound of her lips by the microphone that tricks him into thinking she’s drinking something. Dany probably doesn’t lack for people to make her coffee. Or travel half across town in the cold to get her favorite brew from some little coffee shop if that’s what the princess prefers. Another reason he needs a professional upgrade, because as the youngest Lannister, there’s certainly no one at his beck and call. He’s stuck even on the worst mornings trying to figure out how to work his coffee maker through slitted eyes.

“I’d expect nothing less. He thinks the world of you.”

“And I’m as fond of my uncle as he is of me, which is why you’re completely nuts if you think I’d ever suggest to him that it would be anything other than a mistake to hire you.”

Her father was the crazy one. Not that Tyrion is old enough to remember, but the stain of insanity lingers around the Targaryen dynasty. Reminding her of that fact won’t win him any points. He has to play nice.

“I understand your reluctance.”

Tyrion isn’t crazy, but he does have a reputation. He isn’t the most popular person in the city. People don’t exactly line up to be his friend without the expectation of getting something in return. None of the Lannisters are loved the way the media loves Dany, but his father has made a lot of folks a lot of money and his brother Jaime is unnaturally good looking and is still known as the pitching phenom that was. Both of those things earn them a certain degree of popularity. Tyrion’s looks are never going to win anyone over, he can barely catch a ball let alone toss one from a mound, and while he believes in his ability to spin straw into gold, he has to be given the chance to do it out from underneath his father’s gaze before anyone else will believe it too.

“If you really understood how I feel about you, I don’t think you’d have made this call.”

“Lay it on me.”

“I didn’t like you before I met you, and once I did…”

“You were fully convinced I was an ass.”

He is well aware that at their last meeting he did nothing to polish up that less than sterling reputation he’s been stuck with since the world became aware of Tywin’s youngest. His advice to her at the charity event was solid, but not delivered as tactfully as it might have been.

“You were rude.”

“A little bit. I’ve been known to be rude on occasion.” Especially when he is hung over and feeling attacked, making this call something of a challenge. He hangs his head, silently working his jaw open and closed, willing the pounding at his temples to abate. “Don’t let hating me stop you from working with me. I have hated almost everyone I’ve worked with since I was first stuck in the mailroom of Lannister Merc.”

“You started in the mailroom?” Tyrion can almost hear the smile in her voice, amusement at the image of him slaving away in some stuffy basement coloring her tone. “Tywin Lannister’s son?”

“Trust me, he would have stuck me in the city sewers if he could have. But we had a very efficient mailroom under my leadership. Not one misplaced piece of mail. I’m rather proud of the work I did there. I could make your charities run just as efficiently. I could help you achieve the things you want. I could advise you…”

“I already have plenty of excellent advice.”

“I doubt that actually. A girl like you…”

“Woman,” she corrects.

“A _woman_ like you probably has trouble finding people she can really trust. I know something about that, believe it or not.”

Growing up, he learned early on that it was only the wealth of his family that he could reliably depend on to make friends. Keep them too. When a friend seemed likely to stray, he knew just how expensive a gift to give them to keep them in the fold, knowing that if the gifts did dry up, so would the friendship. That hasn’t changed with age, and you couldn’t trust someone you knew was only around because a Black Card was tucked in your wallet.

It was the same with women. They were all about his bank account and the potential to drain it. Except Shae. She is different. She loves him. In Shae he finally found a woman he can trust. He has the ability to drape her in gold and diamonds, but she doesn’t stay for what he can buy her. It’s real what she feels for him. She swears it every time they are in bed together, and there is nothing sweeter than that.

“Sorry to hear it. But personality issues aside, the real problem is that I need people who believe in my charities. They mean everything to me.”

“Of course they do. All I want to do is help you manage them, so they’ll thrive.”

“Your instinct, sir, is to mock.”

It might seem like it to her, but for all his selfishness, that isn’t the case. “I only mock the bad ones.”

“There’s no such thing.” Tyrion shakes his head. Such naïveté. “People like you are only out for what they can get for themselves.”

“ _Au contraire_. I have something of a soft spot for those in need.”

He was no shoeless orphan. As a child, he never wanted for anything but true affection from his father, but he knows something about being different and the pain that stems from that. Seeing yourself in others—empathizing—is a first step towards true charitable feelings after all. He isn’t about to give away his last dime to save the world, but for those who come across his path who need something, who touch that soft spot inside, he is there to lend a hand.

“I sincerely hope that’s true.”

Little bleeding heart liberal, totally misunderstanding the root of poverty from her ivory tower and yet still having the nerve to judge him. It is infuriating. And yet…

“Let me give you a chance to prove myself.”

“Sorry, but I’m not interested. Good luck to you with my uncle, Mr. Lannister. You’re going to need it.”

…

Tyrion doesn’t like to depend on luck. He likes to stack the deck with tangibles. But sitting before Barristan’s humorless face, he would happily take a dash of luck. It looks as if he needs it, because he’s gotten nowhere by the time the old man presses the speaker button on his phone and asks his assistant to see if Jorah Mormont can join them here in his office.

Jorah fucking Mormont. Again. It’s all Tyrion can manage to keep an ugly grimace off his mug at the thought of Jorah joining in on this little discussion. What could he possibly have to add? Nothing that will bode well for him, he has a sinking sensation.

When Jorah shoulders through the door, he looks better put together than Tyrion remembers him looking. Sharply tailored suit. Hair well groomed. Shoes highly polished. No scruff. Even at the charity event he didn’t look this carefully outfitted, and this is nothing more than a Friday at the office. The only thing that spoils the effect his spiffed up image makes upon the viewer is the scowl that comes over his face when his eyes light upon Tyrion.

“You’re looking sharp, Mormont,” Tyrion says, as he sticks out his hand. “Big date?”

“Maybe,” Jorah says, as he squeezes his hand hard enough that Tyrion has to surreptitiously flex his fingers at his side to regain feeling in them, once Jorah releases him and the big man drops into the chair next to him.

“There’s someone for everyone, I guess,” Tyrion says with a grin.

“Shall we get back to it?” Barristan asks.

“What are we getting back to?"

What does it look like? Tyrion wants to resond, because there's no way Jorah is unaware of Tyrion's bid to come here.

“We were just discussing the possibility of Tyrion joining us here,” Barristan says, gesturing across his desk at Tyrion.

“Is that right?” Jorah says. He doesn’t take his eyes of Barristan, but his hands knit together in his lap, knuckles turning white. “I have some thoughts on that.”

“I thought you might, which is why I’ve brought you in on our meeting. We need to make sure it will be a good fit for everyone involved.”

“While I appreciate you looking out for my tender feelings, Barristan, I know my mind. Time to make up yours, wouldn’t you say?”

It's as close to insolence as Tyrion's come during this interview, but there is no change in Barristan's face. He shifts a glad paperweight from one side of his desk to the other, pulling free the documents Tyrion sent over the day prior as a gesture of good faith. There’s valuable information in there, and it’s the tip of the proverbial iceberg in terms of what he could offer them if they took him on.

“I’m not one for swift decisions,” he says looking over the top of the papers.

Clearly. If he was, Tyrion might already have a nameplate and office to go with it. Of course, based on Barristan’s office, the offices here could use some improvement in the style and comfort departments, but Tyrion is up to the task. They’d all be better off if he moved in and made himself comfortable, but somehow, he doesn’t seem capable of convincing anyone of that fact.

“You mentioned something about Mr. Lannister the other day if I’m not mistaken,” Barristan adds, tapping the papers on the desk. “Something in regards to Dany.”

Fuck. Now would be a fantastic time to be able to boast that Dany asked him to manage her numerous charities, but the morning didn’t go any better than this meeting has so far.

“He tried to get your niece’s number from me,” Jorah says, his mouth a thin, hard line.

“That makes it sound like something it isn’t, gentlemen.”

“What was it then, Mr. Lannister?”

“I have the greatest respect for your niece, which is why I wanted to offer her my services. I thought I could help in her charitable ventures. Provide a little management know how.”

Jorah cuts him a sideways glare. “Is that all it was?” It’s a question he doesn’t give Tyrion a chance to respond to before leaning forward towards Barristan, hands moving to grip the arms of his chair. “He’s smart. Like a snake. But I don’t think we need any snakes in the office.”

“I’ve been called a lot of things, Mormont. I can shoulder the reptilian label, although it’s not entirely fair.”

“No need to resort to name calling. I just need to know one thing. What exactly is your aim in coming here?”

To take over the world? To show them. Cersei. His father. Even his brother. To prove every last one of them wrong and rub his success in their faces. None of those reasons will probably carry any weight with Barristan. But it doesn’t matter. He can already tell that his answer won’t matter. Barristan's decision has already been made. Tyrion's gamble on gaining Dany’s trust as a trophy to present to her uncle failed. He failed. And his future is suddenly looking exceptionally bleak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dany's POV chapter is up next. Then Sansa...


	30. Dany

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dany is a new woman now, who knows what she wants and how to get it. Until a luncheon with her brother shakes her self assurance.

 Chapter Twenty-Nine: Dany

Dany never imagined herself saying ‘yes’ to Jorah’s invitation to join him for drinks. But the conversations they’ve had over the past few weeks were exactly what she needed in the wake of Daario. When she felt her life tumbling out of control, his phone calls were an anchor. They were the kind that lasted into the wee hours with her knees pulled up to her chest in bed and her cheek pressed against the phone. The silences felt natural and while she did most of the talking, what little he did say felt real. He admires her courage, her good heart. He wants to see her succeed in all her plans for the future. He wants to help her. She could use some help from someone strong and steady like Jorah. Each time she hung up, she felt like they knew each other that much better.

Still, she never imagined herself texting him twenty minutes after she was supposed to meet him at the bar with the request that he come to her house instead. But today there’d been a blogger posting pictures of Daario with some brunette and she’d run across an article about Drogo, which made her dread going out into the world. The ever present glare of the media is a convenient excuse for choosing to stay in when she wants to, but inviting Jorah to her place could be construed as a very particular type of invitation. Perhaps that’s what encourages him to make his move.

Her text message and his arrival at her door not thirty minutes later leads to kissing in her kitchen, where she’s never cooked more than toast in spite of the dual ranges and double ovens, after he’s poured her a drink she doesn’t touch. She could push him away, when his hand closes around her elbow and he bends his head down to hers—she’s half tempted to, because who is he to be so presumptuous?—but she’s caught up in the moment and lets it carry them both away.

A moment that gives way to tripping up the stairs, as she draws him towards her bedroom, where the heavy drapes are wide open and the little black dress she discarded in favor of the soft maxi dress she’s currently wearing lies thrown over the edge of the bed. It culminates in straddling him in the tufted chair, where not so long ago Daario would toss his leather jacket, which smelled of cigarette smoke and the gel he used to slick back his blue hair with.

She’s not attracted to Jorah. He’s not as handsome as the men she’s accustomed to dating. That hasn’t changed. But his lips feel good against hers and his arms solid. For a fleeting moment she forgets what Daario’s jacket looked like against the navy and yellow fabric of her armchair. Forgets how Daario suddenly stopped returning her texts. How he didn’t have time for her first one weekend and then another until nearly a month had gone by without seeing him. She forgets her mortification over trying to meet up with him backstage, when she could hear his booming laugh, but his crew told her he’d already left.

No one is allowed to use her like that. To take advantage and lie. She is no longer some fourteen year old girl, looking for acceptance and love in all the wrong places. She is the master of her heart, and tonight she has chosen to forget and sink herself into someone who seems quite eager to express his enthusiasm for her.

Jorah keeps mumbling about love, as his lips brush her skin. If he meant he is _in love_ with her, it would make her decidedly uncomfortable. She doesn’t have time for that. Not with anyone. She has plans that are more important than any man. It's hard to think that she might never have someone like Drogo in her life again, but devoting herself to her causes has to take priority.

But that can’t be what he’s saying. He means he loves _this_. This turn of events that has her wet and clawing his shirt off. He’s as muscular as she thought he might be underneath his suit coat, and he might not be her type, but there’s a ridge of muscle that disappears into his pants that she wouldn’t mind tracing with her wandering hands.

“Unbutton your pants,” she says, balancing her hands on his shoulders, as she kneels above him.

The knit of his dark, thick brows as his hands go to his belt buckle express his amusement, Yes, she would rather order him around than simply do it herself, but that's because her lack of control ends tonight. She’s taking control of her life and that includes what happens in her bed, because that’s what women do. Even if she has to fake it for a while.

“And your socks,” she adds, as she pushes off his lap and walks backwards towards her bedside table, the skirt of her dress bunched in one hand. “I hate it when men wear socks in bed.”

“We’re not in bed,” Jorah says, as he stands to unzip his pants.

His thighs are nice too, she considers, as he bends and pushes his pants down, but they’re hairier than Daario’s.

Dany pulls the drawer's little milk glass knob with a jerk that shakes her bedside lamp. Tonight is about forgetting Daario. Not comparisons.

“It’s a euphemism.”

“For fucking,” he supplies, kicking one leg free and then the next.

She grimaces. “That’s one way to put it,” she says, grabbing for one of the condoms she hasn’t bothered to use in a while.

There are only two left in the drawer. Her stash was depleted early on in her relationship with Daario. But perhaps Jorah came prepared. She’s not sure whether she’d be more offended if he did or didn’t. It might be a moot point after one go round: she’s not going to put up with bad sex ever again, so he's not going to get too many chances.

“Are princesses allowed to say fuck?”

“I’m not _allowed_ anything. I do and say and take whatever I want,” she says, shutting the drawer with a thud.

As if to prove her point, she tosses the condom on the bed, and holds his gaze as she slips one thick strap and then the other off her shoulders. It’s an act of boldness she hopes is convincing. It’s hard to tell what he thinks of her little act, but he doesn't seem to hate it with his eyes fixed steadily on her breasts. It’s some combination of his hot stare and the draft from the windows that have made her nipples go hard. Part of her wants to cover herself with her hands, but she leans on the bravado that feels realer by the moment, opting to uncover more rather than less flesh. One step and she’s bare. The dress is loose enough she only has to shimmy for it to pool on the floor at her feet.

“What do you want, Jorah?”

“You.”

“Why’s that?” she asks, as she crawls atop her bed, knees sinking into the pillow top mattress.

“I’ve told you half a dozen times, Princess. You just don’t want to hear it.”

…

Dany checks the time on her phone for the fifth time before Viserys strolls into Lys with his hands in his pockets, eyes carelessly scanning the room for her, a dull look of boredom taking all the sharpness from his gaze. He’s late. Her brother tends to do this when he makes arrangements to meet her somewhere. It’s a control thing, making her sit around waiting on him that way, proving that no matter how much he might need her, he’s still the one in control. Depending on her for money upsets the established balance of their relationship, and he does whatever he can to seize the reins. It’s nothing new, but she has less tolerance for it now that she’s decided she won’t be anyone’s doormat anymore.

She raises her hand when his eyes skip right over her. Not seeing her is probably nothing more than a manipulation too, but it’s well past two and she’s starving. There’s no time for games with her stomach giving increasingly loud protest.

This time he responds, ignoring the leggy, blonde hostess and pushing around a trio of middle aged women getting up from their lunches, as he makes his way towards the two top table Dany requested in the back corner. It's a garden alcove that drips with hanging plants, creating a little oasis here in the city that Dany finds especially pleasant, when the weather goes south. Dany rarely has difficulty getting the table she wants anywhere in the city once they see her face or she gives them her real name, but they’d never say no to her here. She’s been coming to Lys for years. It was one of the first places she discovered when they moved to New York.

When he flops into the chair, his initially disinterested face twists into one of disapproval, his brows cocked in such a way that Dany knows it won’t take much to push him into a real fit of pique. It might be a mistake to have suggested Lys if she doesn’t want her pleasant memories here tainted by a dramatic scene.

“You didn’t wait for me,” he says, nodding at her drink.

Tears of Lys—her favorite. “I’ve been waiting for over an hour. You really expected me to sit here without even a drink?”

He scowls, turning his head to bark out for a waitress, but one is already at hand, a smile blooming on her fair face, as though she has no idea what a difficult customer she’s about to encounter.

“Can I bring you a drink, sir?”

“A Strangler. Quickly,” he says, patronizingly hyper enunciating each word, as he reaches for the little glass container with sugar packets tucked inside.

“Perfect. I’ll be right back.”

The young woman bobs away with an extra swing in her hips. Maybe she does know who she’s dealing with. Anonymity is impossible.

He fingers a pink packet, he pulls out from the sugars both real and fake, as he considers it.

“So what’s going on?” she asks, as he tears open the packet and tilts it until a steady stream spills onto the table.

When the first empties, he reaches for another and takes far less time in examining it before ripping it open too, adding to the hill of white accumulating on the table. Before he’s finished he’s liable to open several more. It's an unnecessary mess for whoever is supposed to clean up after them. Viserys enjoys making other people’s lives difficult.

“I want to set you up,” he finally says without looking up from his small scale destruction.

Her brother periodically becomes obsessed with her love life, suggesting one pompous loser after another and giving out her number to stiffs she has absolutely no interest in. As far as Dany knows, brothers aren’t typically concerned with the romantic entanglements of their sisters. Viserys isn’t either. Not really. He’s merely working his angles, trying to find someone for her to date that might help him out with his mounting debts.

Jorah Mormont is not wealthy enough to bail her brother out of the mess he’s in.

“Not interested.”

“Why?” he asks, flicking one of the emptied sugar packets at her across the table.

It hits her forearm and flops to the table. She brushes the packet away from her with one dark violet manicured finger. He wants a reaction. He wants to intimidate her. Make her flinch. That’s not going to happen. He’s hit her with worse in public before. After years of abuse, she knows how to handle him and herself.

“I might have something going with someone.”

The grin that draws the corners of his mouth up makes Dany’s skin crawl. She loves her brother, but the way he tries to interfere in her personal life sometimes goes too far. It might be selfishness that drives him, but there’s still something vaguely creepy about it.

“You move fast, don’t you?” he asks, looking down to draw a spiral in the sugar he’s spilled with his long middle finger. “Daario gets sick of you and you’ve already found another loser to sleep with.”

“That’s not any of your business.”

He lifts his finger to his mouth and sucks. “It is if you’ve moved on to Jorah Mormont.”

Since there was nothing in the blogs or papers about it—she’s been so careful—she has no idea how her brother hit upon that bit of information.

“Artificial sugar can cause diabetes,” she offers brightly.

Whoever his sources, he’ll have to be satisfied with their reports. She’s not going to give him any information about her love life.

“You know that asshole is having me followed.”

She’s reached for her glass, but his accusation freezes her in place. She can’t seem to lift it off the table to bring it to her lips. “I’m sorry?”

“That’s right. Followed. By a shitty detective in a crappy polyester suit. The same goddamn suit every day. I have this horrible suspicion he smells like string cheese.”

“What would you know about string cheese?”

“Thankfully nothing, but I thought you should know that Mr. Mormont is stalking me like a scorned lover.”

Dany gives a quick shake of her head. “You’re paranoid.” It’s a valid charge to make in recent years with Viserys’ difficulties increase, which is why his claim could be total nonsense, the result of an overactive mind. It must be. Jorah would never. Since that night in the club, she’s had this feeling that he was someone she could trust. He’s done nothing to threaten that since, despite having ample opportunity with the considerable alteration in their relationship. “You must know how absolutely ridiculous that sounds.”

No one would believe it, and yet, she draws her hand back, slipping it under the table to wake her phone up where it rests in her lap. It will only take a quick text to be sure, and then she’ll feel better having it all cleared up.

“The bastard is right outside the window,” Viserys says, gesturing over his shoulder.

Dany has to tilt her head to see around Visery, but it’s hard to miss the older gentleman in the fedora skulking in the shadows at the entrance like some terrible stereotype. As soon as she spots him, he spins, putting his back to them in a pitiful attempt to appear as if he wasn’t staring. Whoever he is, he’s not good at making himself inconspicuous.

“That man followed you here?”

“He follows me everywhere. Sits outside my apartment like some kind of pervert.”

Maybe Viserys _is_ being followed. It rather looks as if he is. But she can’t think why Jorah would be caught up in anything involving her brother. Or how Viserys came to such a bizarre conclusion if Jorah isn’t.

“What makes you think…Mr. Mormont has anything to do with this?” she asks with practiced blandness, while she glances down to enter her password and open her messages.

“I have connections, Dany.”

“Your connections have to be wrong. He’s one of Barristan’s employees. A loyal, longtime employee. He wouldn’t mess around with you like that.” He wouldn’t do that to me, she wants to add, but it will only agitate Viserys if she confirms his suspicions about her.

Her brother swipes his hand across the table, brushing the majority of the sugary mess he’s made onto the floor. “God you’re stupid. What would you do without me?”

Dany looks down again, but with a quick scroll she can’t find Jorah’s message from this morning, the one he sent in the early hours after leaving her bed. It's buried somewhere in her communications from people she counts not nearly as important to her, but she’ll find him in her favorites.

God. Here she was furious at whomever in her circle handed out her number to Tyrion Lannister, and after sleeping with Jorah five times, she added him to her favorites. That’s how eager she is to have someone to trust.

If Viserys is right…

He can’t be. Not about Jorah. Not about her being so colossally stupid as to trust someone that would want to spy on her own brother. She’s supposed to be a new woman. A new, more in control, wiser woman.

The waitress comes back with a glossy lipped smile and Viserys’ drink, and between her brother quizzing the woman on how his Strangler was made and drilling her on the details of the lunch specials, Dany manages to open her text screen and type out a quick message. To put an end to this insanity.

_I have a crazy question for you._

His response is as quick as all his other communications with her, as if he keeps his phone out waiting to hear from her. Not like Daario who would sometimes leave her texts unanswered for hours. Days. Until they went unanswered altogether.

 _Fire away, Princess_.

She likes it when he calls her that. Likes the way he says Dany too in that sleep roughened voice of his right before he rolls over so she can climb atop him.

 _My brother thinks he’s being followed_.

The waitress is staring at her, which she only realizes when her brother kicks her under the table with his painfully pointy shoes. It’s her turn to order. She hasn’t looked at the menu, but she knows the options well enough not to need it.

“Oh, pardon me. I’ll have a salad. House salad. Raspberry dressing on the side, please,” she says, her eyes fixing on her phone as soon as is passably polite.

There’s no chime. No quick reply. The lack sends her thumbs flying over the screen once more.

_You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?_

Viserys is saying something, something she can’t pay any mind to as she stares at her phone, despite the fact that his voice is rising and they could be headed towards an embarrassing display if she doesn’t give him her attention soon.

_It isn’t how it sounds._

She stares at the little grey bubble of damning text, watching in increasing terror as the next one pops up below it.

_We should talk about this in person._

Her eyes close and some desperate part of her hopes that when she opens them again the text will be different, that she's hallucinated it and Viserys is just paranoid. But they're still there. Two grey text bubbles one after the other. Her thumb rubs over them, as if she might erase his answer with her touch.

Viserys isn’t crazy. Jorah did it. He paid someone to spy on her brother. He's as much as admitted it. Why should they talk about it? There’s absolutely nothing he could say that would explain away the intrusive, repulsive betrayal of having her brother followed. He might think differently, but what he doesn't know is that if she saw him, she might claw his eyes out.

Rage makes her mistype, but autocorrect makes her intelligible.  _I don’t want to ever see you again_.

Her brother slams his hand down on the table, jarring both their glasses hard enough to rattle the ice. The amount of time she can safely spend ignoring him has expired, but staring at her phone isn't going to change the fact, so she lifts her head and fixes him with a false smile.

“I said, are you texting him?”

“Don’t worry about that.”

“Someone has to worry about this family. Idiots like Jorah think they stand to gain something from digging into our lives. He’s a user.”

“So are you,” she spits back, but her fire doesn’t prevent her hand from shaking, while she blindly fingers the lock button atop her phone.

“And you let him weasel his way right into your life,” he taunts, pointing his butter knife at her.

At the click of her phone, she straightens her spine and tightens her jaw.

That’s done with. It was a mistake. One she won’t repeat. Putting Jorah out of her mind along with everyone else who has turned against her is the only solution. The knowledge of it sits like a lump in her gut. A moment ago her stomach was growling, but now there’s no way she’ll be able to eat her salad.

Never mind. She has to think of the future and all the wonderful things she has yet to accomplish. To focus on the past will get her nowhere.

“You have someone more appropriate in mind?” she asks, reaching across the table to lower the waving knife back down. “To set me up with?”

She might even accept. Out of sheer spite.

“I do.”

“Well, I’m on the edge of my seat.”

“Joffrey Lannister.”

“No,” she says, grabbing for her drink. This time she manages to lift it off the table and swallow half of what’s left. “Absolutely not. He’s a monster. I have standards.”

“Barely.”

It’s hard to argue with that insult given her recent record. But the thought of even sitting across from a Lannister sets her teeth on edge. It’s one thing to think someone is good and be proven wrong. It’s another to know they’re bad right from the start.

“He’s a little shit.”

Her brother shrugs off her assessment with a heavenward roll of his eyes. “Does it make a difference that he’s a very wealthy little shit?”

“No. Though I imagine it matters to you,” she says, tipping her near empty glass towards him.

“Not only wealthy. He’s about to become pretty damn powerful too. He stands to take over Lannister Mercantile, since the old man stroked out.”

“There’s still Joffrey’s father.” Jaime Lannister, a total lay about as best as she can tell.

Viserys finally picks up his drink, condensation from the melting cubes shimmering on the sides of the glass. He turns it, examining it as if it might be poisoned. “Jaime Lannister won’t be walking back through those doors.”

“Why not? He lost a hand, not his head.”

There’s hardly been a photograph of the eldest Lannister since the car accident, no real proof of his injury, but the media gleefully reported the loss of his hand nonetheless. It’s hard to have sympathy for any of them, but Dany knows what it’s like to have the ugly glare of the media directed at you in your weakest moments. At least they never got wind of her affair with Jorah, or she’d be facing down weeks of speculation over their break up in addition to her own bitter regret. That will be more than enough.

Her brother sniffs at his glass and then sets it back down. “Not from what I’ve heard.”

Normally she wouldn’t humor her brother in this kind of speculative conversation, but today he's batting 1,000. His so called sources must not be total hacks. “What did you hear?”

“That he stormed out of Lannister Merc, shouting about business ethics. Like he was stark raving mad.”

“Business ethics?”

“Jaime Lannister giving lessons in honorable conduct,” Viserys says with a smirk.

“As if he’s ever given a damn about ethics.” She’s the one that wants to do the right thing. She wants to help people. Yes, she wants to save the world, and it’s the Lannisters of this world who have the money, the ability to actually help, but do nothing save laugh at her efforts. Jorah was going to help her. He swore it. He said he loved her too. “There’s a special place in hell for people like that,” she says, her eyes unwillingly drawn back to her phone.

 It lights up with a string of unanswered texts all from Jorah.

_I’m sorry._

_I thought I’d be out when your uncle hired Tyrion._

_And information about Viserys would save my ass._

_I thought if I found something out, you’d be better off knowing too._

_It was a mistake._

_I love you._

Jorah was right, when he said she didn’t want to hear that he loved her. As it turns out, that was the best instinct she ever had. This isn’t love. This is obsession. As soon as she walks out of this restaurant, she’s going to block all messages from his number, so she never has to see so much as an electronic communication from him.

She breathes in deeply through her nose and drops her phone into her purse that dangles over the back of her chair. “Joffrey Lannister could be the king of New York for all I care. I’m not getting mixed up with that family.”

“Are you sure? He’s just a kid. Easy to manipulate,” Viserys says, walking his fingers over the table towards her.

“I don’t want to manipulate anyone.”

“I’m just saying, sis. Think about all the poor kids and weeping widows you could help if you didn’t have to wait for a monthly check to come in. Wouldn’t it be nice to have control of the boy who controls those purse strings? For once you’d be in complete control of your destiny.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next is Sansa's POV... which will lead up to a Dany, Jon, Cat, Ned, Jon arc I'm suuuuper excited about.
> 
> I'm also going to be reactivating the character tumblrs as we move into this arc, so be ready for some fireworks.


	31. Sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At seeing the news on Margaery's tumblr blog, she should be more worried about Margaery than she is herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: reference to past physical abuse, although nothing close to canonical lines

 Chapter Thirty: Sansa

Sansa pulls the stall door closed behind her and throws the sliding lock. Her eyes close in relief at the temporary peace of this quiet space. If she hadn’t checked her tumblr at lunch, she wouldn’t be a mess like this at work, but she did and now there’s no way she can think of anything but Margaery’s boastful post complete with glittering ring. Working on her project is completely out of the question with her concentration totally blown.

Reaching into the pocket of her skirt—she loves that it has pockets—she fishes out her phone and thumbs her password in, banishing the lock screen picture of Rickon and Bran sticking popsicle blue stained tongues out at her, as it springs to life.

The time at the top says it’s not quite two. Not much time has passed since lunch, though it feels like she’s been staring blankly at her computer screen for hours, reliving that night when Joffrey hit her in front of a restaurant full of people. Twice Mya asked her what’s wrong, as she shifted in her seat and cleared her throat repeatedly, and she still hasn’t been able to come up with a good answer. She needs to talk to someone, but as much as she likes Mya, Sansa can guess what her advice would be: _Fuck ‘em_. Not unreasonable advice given the circumstances, but there’s something worse than finding out Margaery is marrying her ex and whatever she’s shared in confidence with her best friend might now be passed along to Joffrey. It’s the fear that she might be at fault if anything awful happens to Margaery that is making her hands tremble and stomach twist.

Jon’s face in a small circle looks back at her from her screen, grey eyes hidden by reflective shades. She cropped herself mostly out of the photo to use as his icon, but her hair peeks out from behind his, blown forward by that windy day on the lake this summer. It's proof she was there too, right behind his shoulder, holding out the phone to capture them both forever or until her iCloud storage ran out. They spent the day together but mostly apart, because she was convinced so long as she kept a safe distance, she could go on forever pretending there was nothing between them except what was expected by the rest of the family.

She’s gotten so good at keeping things from people that she’s lost the ability to determine what should be kept a secret and what needs to confessed.

Jon will answer. He has to. If he’s at the gym and she’s stuck here alone with no one to talk to for the rest of the day, she’ll lose her mind.

It only rings once. He says her name, his voice going up in an unspoken question, because she never calls like this during the day, when she’s supposed to be working. A text, a quick reply to something he’s posted, those are the types of things she can afford to sneak in over the course of the day. If he could see where she was calling from, he’d be even more confused.

She turns in the stall and presses her back against the door. “Hey.”

“Everything okay?”

“Um…Have you been on tumblr today?”

“No. What’d I miss?”

Even if he had spent all day reblogging black and white photos on his unapologetically bleak blog, there’s a good chance he wouldn’t have noticed Margaery’s post. There’s no reason for him to follow her blog or anyone who would be trumpeting news of her relationship.

Sansa dips her head down and covers her phone with her hand, cupping it, because despite being the only person in the ladies room, the last thing she wants is to hear the truth echoed back at her in her own wavering voice. This information feels too big as it is.

“Joffrey and my friend Margaery are engaged. They’re going to be married.”

She can hear him curse, but it’s so quiet that it’s mostly sibilant noise that comes across the line. “That’s…I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s,” she says, pausing to wave her hand in front of her eyes to dry the tears that are threatening to sprout for the fourth time today. “It’s fine, you know? I just…”

She wants to tell Jon the truth, but if she says it here, she won’t be able to hold back to the tears, leaving evidence on her face impossible to obscure with some water and bath tissue. Somehow she has to eventually leave this bathroom looking as presentable as possible.

“That’s bullshit. She was your best friend.”

His use of the past tense doesn’t escape her. He’s right though. Margaery hasn’t had much use for her in months. Every time Sansa has called to try to discuss some difficulty or share good news, she’s seemed distracted and uninterested. Their friendship ended long before Margaery and Joff got together. At least Sansa hopes that was the order of things.

She taps her foot against the ceramic tile floor. “I need to talk, but I don’t want anyone to see me upset. I’m barely holding it together here, Jon.”

“You’re in the office?”

“Yeah.”

Everyone here knows about Joff and Margaery’s engagement. Or if they don’t, they will shortly, as news of it spreads from the internet to the tabloids to the gossip section of the paper. It’s the kind of thing people will talk about. She won’t be able to escape speculation about the wedding for months. The venue, Margaery’s dress, the wedding party, and all the fluffy details of the day will be fodder for gossip. Their wedding day will be covered in the papers. Maybe their honeymoon too. Every picture and article will be a reminder of the secret Sansa’s kept.

Pity isn’t something Sansa relishes after becoming too familiar with it last year, and if she cries in front of anyone at work on today of all days, they’ll assume it’s because she’s still in love with him.

“Actually, I’m hiding in the bathroom,” she says with a sniff, wrapping one arm around herself. “Totally pathetic.”

“Sounds like the perfect place to me.”

Hardly. If she stays in here for much longer, Mya will come looking for her and if she’s very lucky this won’t be the first place Mya looks.

“Are you…are you busy with anything?”

“Osha’s out doing Christmas shopping or something, so I’m supposed to be here when your brothers get home for homework and snacks duty, but that’s not for a couple of hours. What can I do?”

“I need to get out of here for a little while. Clear my head.” They need someplace private, where there won’t be any prying eyes or eavesdroppers, drawn by a sighting of Sansa Stark on the day when her ex and her best friend have publicly announced their engagement. She might be ready to tell what happened with Joff, but she doesn’t need the whole world finding out about it. “Do you know St Mary’s on West 46th?”

Escaping to the privacy of a church isn’t new to Sansa. There was a church near campus in Boston that she frequently ended up hiding in during her last semester, since it was the one place she could sit unmolested, when Margaery was in the room and Sansa needed to feel safe. If anyone noticed, they would have merely decided she was religious, which wasn't incongruous with her reputation: the sweet, always appropriate Stark girl.

St Mary’s should do the job too. It’s close and bound to be fairly quiet in the middle of the week on a cold afternoon. No one to interrupt them and nothing to make Jon jumpy.

“You want me to meet you there?”

She presses her lips together, flooded with sudden uncertainty. She’s asking Jon to judge for her whether she owes Margaery the truth, when she’s hardly been honest with him. “You don’t mind?”

“I’ve already got my coat on.”

She doesn’t. It’s hanging in the space she shares with Mya, and getting out of the office without anyone noticing something is amiss requires a quick clean up of her makeup in the bathroom, one poor excuse, and a lot of forced smiles before she tucks her earbuds in her ears and exits the building. Her coat isn’t as warm as it is beautiful, but the cold wind that cuts through its silk lining helps her pull herself together, leaving her less weepy and more steely determined, as she walks the couple of blocks to the Gothic church she’s passed hundreds of times without any need to go inside.

The extra time it takes her to escape the office and walk in her heels in the holiday crowds of Times Square gives Jon enough time to beat her there. When she pushes through the doors and into the vestibule, she sees his outline in the last pew, facing the chancel. He’s the only person in the brightly ornamented church, save a grey haired woman sitting a few rows back from the high marble altar, her head bowed in what must be prayer.

Outside it’s the kind of cold that seeps into your bones to take what feels like permanent residence, but inside isn’t much warmer. She hunches her shoulders in her high collared coat, as she makes her way across the open space to the pews, one foot weaving directly in front of the other like she used to do on the runways of Paris.

Bit by bit Margaery has stepped into her life. First modeling and now Joff. It's not the coup she must imagine it to be, because while Sansa misses modeling, she knows better than to miss Joff.

The resonance of her shoes on the limestone draws Jon’s attention, and he looks up at her as she slips in beside him. She sits down right at his side, leaning into him. This summer she may have kept her distance, but there’s no time for pretense anymore. She needs him.

“Hey, handsome,” she says, as she pulls her earbuds out.

He has the kind of Byronic good looks that she would have once rejected in favor of a more polished look, but the pink on his cheeks at her greeting is anything but dangerous.

He lifts his chin at her. “Whatcha listening to?”

She holds one earbud up to his ear. It’s Taylor Swift, and normally he’d tease her about her decidedly populist taste in music, but he only elbows her in the side with a roll of his eyes as she stops the track and tucks the earbuds away in her coat pocket.

“Is that your battle soundtrack?”

“Something like that,” she agrees, reaching for his hand.

Without hesitation he wraps his fingers around hers. His grip is as warm and comforting as his presence.

“I'd listen to that album you recommended, but I have a feeling it wouldn't be terribly helpful in keeping me from feeling sorry for myself.”

“That's probably my problem.”

“Probably,” she says with a small smile. “Thank you for coming.”

“Of course.”

Jon’s mouth twitches between a frown and a hint of a smile and the furrow in his brow gives him a severe appearance that is in contrast with the softness of his eyes. It’s as if his whole face is at war with itself, when he looks from their clasped hands to her face and back again. He didn’t hesitate to agree to meet her here, but it’s evident he’s not at ease. There’s something about this spontaneous meeting that has him on edge and she thinks she knows what it is.

It isn’t only Margaery she owes something. Before she bothers him with the rest of it, she needs to make something very clear.

She tips her head up to look at the gold and blue vaulted ceiling that shimmers above them and gives his hand a squeeze. “I’m not in love with Joff.”

“Okay.”

His response is too quick, too automatic to be genuine.

“I need you to know that.” She doesn’t want anyone thinking she carries a torch for Joffrey. Especially not Jon. The truth is so very different from that. “Do you believe me?”

He nods.

“I mean, I’m shocked that they’re engaged or disappointed or something, I guess.”

“Understandable.”

Sansa pulls her feet underneath the pew until just the tips of the toes of her heels are touching the floor. “Disappointed in Margaery, because nothing he could do would shock me anymore.”

“You know how I feel about him.”

After Robb died, Jon told her that her brother had hated Joff. He wasn't the only one: Arya hated Joff right from the beginning and made no effort to hide it. The whole family probably hated him, and she was the last one to catch on to what a jerk he really was.

She’s always the last to know.

“But I shouldn’t be shocked at all. Margaery blogged about dresses and rings and flowers for months. _Months_. How stupid does that make me?”

“I’m not going to let you call yourself stupid.” He taps their clasped hands against his leg. “You’re the least stupid person I know.”

She cuts him a sidelong look. “Your friend Sam is a genius.”

He nods. “Second least stupid.”

“Well, at least not so stupid as to be in love with Joff.” Not after what happened. “That’s not why I’m upset. I mean, I'm not even jealous of her situation.” Sansa imagined that she would be the first among her friends to get married, but that obviously will not be the case. “I still want to get married, but not if it means being married to someone like that, you know?”

“Not for all the gold in China.”

“Right. I want to marry someone nice and good. Like you," she adds.

It doesn't take much to make Jon happy. The smallest bit of praise and he blooms. Everyone likes a compliment, but Jon must have gone without them for so long that he doesn't know what to do with them. It's so painfully sweet the way he ducks his head and shuffles his feet against the floor that she almost forgets to feel awful.

As Sansa breathes in, collecting herself, she can smell the incense that they must use during mass hanging in the air. There’s something so apt about unburdening herself in this space, surrounded by the symbols of forgiveness. This is at least partially why these types of places are constructed.

“I'm really embarrassed, Jon.”

“Yeah?”

“I told her things.”

Desperate for someone to confide in, she opened up again and again over the past eighteen months even when it became clear that Margaery had little interest in what she had to say. The memory of those conversations sends a prickling trail of unease down her spine. Margaery will tell everything to Joff. Or to Cersei. Not out of spite. Margaery must believe she won whatever game it is they were playing, and she’s not cruel enough to deliver a deathblow. But she will do whatever she feels she has to as his fiancée, including sharing Sansa’s blackest secrets. Margaery is enough of an opportunist and sufficiently skilled at self preservation that Sansa has no doubt of that.

Her hands go to her face, pressing her fingertips to her eyelids, trying to block out the images of Margaery’s flirty smile and her little frown that flashes before her in a vivid mockery. All those times she acted like she wanted to help Sansa. It might have all been lies.

“Oh my god,” she whispers.

She told her about Petyr. About Jon…

Jon shifts, draping his arm around her shoulder, and pulls her in tight with a sigh that's as heavy as she feels. Her breath hitches in her chest, the warded off tears threatening to return until his thumb rubs a slow circle right underneath her ear. It's the place she’s imagined him kissing her. The way his teeth might pull at the lobe of her ear until her knees felt weak and he would have to grip her to his chest to keep her from melting right through the floor. This is a different kind of touch, but Sansa can’t help but turn into it. Their knees knock together, as she twists in the pew to tuck her face into the wool collar of his pea coat.

“I hate to see you like this,” he says, his arm still slung over her, a heavy weight that isn’t slowing her jumpy pulse at all. She tips her face to nudge his neck with her nose. He smells of wool and shaving cream, and when she places her palm against his chest, she can feel the rumble of his words. “They can all go to hell. The Lannisters. Your so called friend. They’re a bunch of assholes.”

His hand cups the back of her head, his fingers sliding into her hair and pulling enough to make her lips part and her voice sound raspy. “I told her stuff about us, Jon.”

His chin brushes against her temple, bringing his lips close enough that she feels the question spoken against her skin. “Us?”

“You and me,” she says, running the pads of her fingers down over the buttons of his coat. “I told her I was confused. About us.”

“Us.”

“Mhmm,” she hums, her lips tickling his neck to the right of where his Adam's apple bobs.

His back straightens and his hand slips free of her hair in a jerk, leaving his arm to hang awkwardly against her back, hovering in a terminated gesture of warmth. He doesn’t pull away the way he must feel compelled to. He wouldn’t, when she’s obviously upset, so she rescues him from his discomfort, retreating to the end of the pew with a scoot, eyes fixed on the fresh, unwanted space created between them.

He might have said he was confused too and then at least she would have that to hold onto even if it never went any further than a tense kind of confusion shared once upon a time. But she’s known for months that whatever happened between them last Christmas was a momentary blunder. Jon’s sensible. He knows what he is to this family even if Sansa used to not understand or accept how he fit in. Brother, son, or friend, what he’s not is a potential love interest. There’s an undeniable something between them, but Jon would never let that spark catch and risk everything. She’s the only one that let herself daydream about that kind of impossibility, a figment she has to protect herself against.

“We’re in a church,” she says, by way of explanation of her retreat, when she sees signs of his anxiety increasing, his hands rubbing roughly over the tight denim of his knees.

As soon as the words have escaped, she wishes she could call them back.  _We’re in a church, Jon. Now’s not the time for a make out sesh!_ As if he would ever do something so foolish.

Her eyes go to his lips—a little chapped from the cold—and he wets them, gaze fixed somewhere south of her eyes.

She blows out a cleansing breath and glances towards the giant crucifix hanging above the altar. It’s the season for giving and thinking of others, and normally she’s very good at that sort of thing. Right now she should be more worried about Margaery getting herself in deep with Joffrey, instead of whether Margaery will tell tales about Sansa’s ridiculous love life.

“I probably told her more than I should have, but I never told her about Joff.”

Jon lifts one shoulder, looking decidedly uncomfortable in his own skin. “What about him?”

Her voice comes out robotic, matter of fact, despite the well of guilt that bubbles up from her belly. “If she gets hurt, it’d be my fault.”

“Nothing about this is your fault.”

“This would be, because I kept it a secret.”

“ _What_ about Joff?” he asks again, as he stuffs his hands into the side pockets of his coat, so that it bulges where his fists must be clenched.

“He hit me,” she says, fingers floating up to ghost over her cheek where his hand made contact. “Right before we broke up. It was Valentine’s and he slapped me at the table over dinner. I thought maybe he was going to propose. We were at a nice restaurant and he was all dressed up, but instead he hit me.”

Jon rocks forward in the pew, and there's only one word she hears hoarsely gritted out over and over—fuck—as he puts his head between his legs. _Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck_. “God damn it, Sansa,” he says, pulling his hands free of his coat to temple them against his bent head.

“Jon,” she hisses, eyes cutting to the woman still sitting at the front, because they really are in a church, and profanities and blasphemy are probably just as bad if not worse than groping each other.

One hand lashes out to smack the pew in front of him, and Sansa grabs it, peeling it from the wooden surface with a quick look to the woman, who has finally twisted around in her pew to see what's going on behind her. _Sorry_ , she mouths, whether the woman can make it out or not, before easing Jon's hand onto his leg.

“He fucking touched you? He hit you?” he says, fixing her with a demanding stare.

“Or he slapped me. I don’t know.” She knows exactly what it was. He wanted to make sure she understood she was nothing and he could do whatever he wanted with her. “It was a slap.”

“Shit,” Jon says, slouching back in the pew and tilting his head all the way back until his head meets the high wooden back. “I’m having some seriously violent thoughts right now.”

Sansa wants to say that violence isn’t the answer, but there’s a thrill that runs through her at Jon’s words. Joffrey deserves to have someone bigger and stronger push him around. He deserves a taste of his own medicine.

She runs her hand down his stiff arm.

It’s only a fantasy. Joff is safely in Boston and Jon doesn’t need to get in the kind of trouble messing up Joffrey Lannister’s face would land him in. Plus, getting some revenge against him wouldn’t undo the invisible scars he left on her. It’s too late for her, but not for her friend.

“If she knew what he was capable of, she wouldn’t be marrying him.”

“I should hope not.”

Margaery is ambitious, but she is not so careless as to pledge herself to a guy she knows might abuse her. “Which means I have to be the one to tell her, right?”

“You should ruin him, fucking ruin him. Tell everyone,” he says, covering the hand on his arm with his own.

“Maybe.” But she'll start with Marg.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can watch this play out on the character tumblr blogs. You can interact with them too. (makepinklemonade, theghostofjonsnow, ahighgardenrose, and princessofapalacecracked)
> 
> Up next is Dany again and then Jon. Their chapters take place on the same night in the same place with a whole host of our characters present...


	32. Dany

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dany agrees to drinks with Joffrey to appease her brother, but she's drawing the line at one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy holidays! Please enjoy this disturbing chapter as a gift from me to you. ;)
> 
> PS: Rest assured I don't think mean Santa is about to have anything truly bad happen to Dany at the conclusion of ADWD. I'm even less likely to do so. I'm no D&D.
> 
> tw: use of Rohypnol to inhibit ability to consent

Chapter Thirty-One: Dany

Margaery Tyrell? Dany’s never heard of her. Much let been introduced. Which means she’s doing fairly well for herself by marrying into the Lannister family. That is if you don’t have a problem with the whole _modus operandi_ of that family, which Dany does.

The Tyrell girl’s name came across her feed yesterday paired with Joffrey Lannister, whom Dany happens to have agreed to have a drink with tonight at the club of his choice, despite the fact that she hates all of his family either on principle or in practice. He chose the Night’s Watch. Until recently it was on very few people’s radar. Definitely not the kind of place you’d find the right sort of people, definitely not what you would call a hot spot. But suddenly it’s on everyone’s lips. She read one review that claimed the Night’s Watch was going to save the winter club scene. Sounded a bit ridiculous to Dany, but people must be buying the hype, because as she climbs from her limo, it is impossible not to notice how the line to get inside wraps around the block.

Her appearance here is good publicity for the place, which is why she’s given the star treatment. A bottle of their most expensive champagne, a somewhat homely waitress hovering close by, and a visit from the DJ, Satin, a pretty young man with a soft voice, to assure her that he’ll play whatever she might like—it’s the same tedious showering of attention she receives everywhere she goes. Maybe this place is in need of her as much as the 'winter club scene' is in need of it.

It’s an odd thing to have a guy to ask you out for a drink the same week his fiancée announces their engagement on her blog, stirring up a mini frenzy amongst the gossips of the city. Even odder for him to want to meet up at the currently en vogue club, where there are bound to be photogs stationed outside ready to capture and publish their quasi date in the tabloids for a hefty price. This kind of decision making confirms for Dany that Joffrey is a creep. He’s not somebody she wants anything to do with and it would serve him right for her to no show, leaving him feeling every bit the little worm he is. Yet here she is, one leg crossed over the other in the VIP section, leaning against the back of a black leather chair while she waits for him to arrive. She hates waiting on anyone.

The only reason she’s doing this is for Viserys. He pestered her endlessly since their luncheon, insisting that Joff is their ticket.To what she’s not sure, but if a drink will shut him up, she’s willing to do it just the once; and although she doesn’t know Margaery from Adam, she figures she’ll do the girl a solid and send her a picture of her and Joff at the end of the night, so she knows exactly what kind of troll she’s engaged to. What she does with that information is her business, but girls ought to stick together. If the blogs are right and Joffrey was once Margaery’s best friend’s boyfriend, that’s a lesson Miss Tyrell apparently hasn’t yet learned.

Dany spots his lazy swagger, as the crowd parts and Joffrey moves towards the section where she sits roped off from the masses in her Armani Privé. He reminds her of his father—everyone says the same—but he’s a less artfully composed imitation. Jaime Lannister is leonine in his movements and exudes an effortless confidence, whereas his son looks as if he spent ample time practicing his gait, his grin, the whole cocky package in a mirror. It’s not a good look, and her blood red lip inches up in disgust.

The bouncer standing at the ropes looks over to Dany for guidance. In or not? Yes or no? She can see from the way his thick body shifts that he’s ready to block Joff from entering, despite his last name being nearly as famous as her own. The man could easily keep Joff away from her—broad shouldered, tall, brawny, he looks like he could tackle a giant if one wandered by—but while the grimace on her face displays her reluctance to have the boy join her, she actually agreed to meet with him. It might be amusing to her to deny him at the critical moment, but Viserys would not find her gesture remotely humorous.

She raises her hand, giving the signal with a curl of finger. “He’s allowed,” she says, though the deep thump of the music must render her words a wasted effort.

Joffrey bends down, when she doesn’t bother to stand, and places his hand on her shoulder in too friendly a gesture. “Evening, Princess.”

“Just Dany, please.”

“A pleasure,” he says, his breath hot against her ear.

She nods in reply, because she can’t quite make herself agree verbally. This is an obligation, and one she’s been dreading all day long, as she lounged in bed in her silk pajamas, sucking on frozen grapes and watching a marathon on the Discovery Channel about reptiles, the extinct kind mostly.

“What do you think?” he asks, as he gestures behind him at the shifting throng.

With the weather being what it is, there are a lot of people in fur tonight, both real and fake. Even more in tight leather and spiked heels. Dany is probably the only person not dressed in head to toe black. She looks decidedly out of place in her sheer lace dress with layers of long pearls hanging down her bodice. This really isn’t her scene. That’s not what Joffrey wants to hear, however. It takes no great feat of understanding to guess he’s not accustomed to being criticized. There’s an expectant gleam in his eyes that says he likes to being patted on the back for every last thing. Expects it. Even when all he’s done is pick out a kind of questionable club for drinks.

“It’s certainly basic.”

The whole place is draped in black, it’s darker than even your average club with a serious lack of mood lighting, and the flooring is an unforgiving dark slate that must be killer on the feet after several hours writing to the music in heels. She’s not sure how long the Night’s Watch has been in operation, but she guesses that with the lights on, it would become patently clear how rundown this place really is.

Joffrey laughs, as he reaches for the bottle of champagne waiting to be opened on the low table before them. “Basic is on trend, but you can take this stripped down shit too far,” he says, turning the bottle in the ice bucket to read the label. “Like this. You can’t call something champagne when it isn’t from Champagne. Total crap. Let’s get something else to drink.”

“That’s all right. The champagne will be fine.”

“No, everyone says when you’re at the Night’s Watch, you have to have vodka.”

“I’ve had vodka, thanks, and the champagne is already ready to go.” Which means she can have the drink and get out of here that much faster, which is her primary aim.

“You haven’t had vodka like this. You’ll love it.”

Dany flips her braid over her shoulder and looks towards the waitress. “You can tell her what you want then. She’s here to help us tonight.”

He sneers at the woman, as if he can’t bear the thought of conversing with her long enough to order a bottle. “I’ll get it myself. I’d like to check out the scene,” he says before holding up his finger as if to indicate he’ll be back in a minute.

Dany reaches down for her clutch, as he disappears back into the crowd. She pops the clasp, tilts it until the silk lining is lit enough to see the contents, and slips her phone out. It probably won’t do any good and the noise of it will fail to reach her ears, but she switches the ringer to its highest setting. At least she’ll see it light up if she leaves it out resting by her thigh on the chair. There’s a good chance she’ll need an excuse to leave before finishing the one drink, and answering her phone will be the best way to secure her exit. The good news is, her phone never ceases to buzz and chime.

Her eyes have started to glaze over in boredom by the time Joffrey returns with a tray lined with shot glasses made of ice and an open bottle of vodka clutched in one hand. Dany narrows her eyes at the glasses, as he sits the tray down on the table and moves around to sit in the chair next to her. There’s only the two of them, but there are eight shot glasses.

“That’s a lot of shots. Don’t you think?”

“You only need to have one,” he says as if she requires his permission not to get drunk. As if she needs anyone’s permission.

“What a relief,” she says, propping her head on her hand. “Someone would have to carry me out of here if I had four shots.”

“I have a beast of a guy we can call if that ends up being the case. I say jump, he asks how high.”

She purses her lips. There’s no one Joffrey knows that she would allow lay a finger on her.

“How handy.”

Leaning forward to pour the first two shots, he shouts over his shoulder at her, “I’m not sure how we’ve gone so long without ever really being introduced.”

There’s no mystery. She’s avoided him like she avoids everyone in his family, except when she can’t.

“No idea,” she says, taking the shot from his hand.

She peers at it for a moment, watching the glass like shimmer of the clear liquid, before tipping it back and swallowing. Vodka is certainly not her favorite, but this is expensive, well made liquor. The ice is cold enough that she immediately wants to be rid of it, so the goose bumps forming along her legs will stop. She uncrosses her legs, stretching to put it back on the tray next to its seven companions. She inwardly growls that Joffrey insisted that they have vodka shots and didn’t even taken one himself. Beastly idiot.

“I’ll have to thank your brother for setting this up,” he says, as she rearranges herself back in the chair, shifting the skirt of her dress with restless hands.

“Should I thank your fiancée for allowing it?” Dany asks.

His mouth tightens and she thinks she might have discomposed him enough to put a perfectly early end to this evening, but then he sits one leg atop the other and levels her with one of the most unattractive grins. “I’m engaged, not enslaved.”

“No one should joke about slavery. There are anywhere between 12 and 29 million slaves today worldwide.”

“Well aren’t you a barrel of fun. You might actually like my girl with that kind of talk.” Dany raises her brows at that seemingly impossible claim. “Which is why we could both probably use another drink.”

She puts her hand out to stop him. “All I’m saying is that I wouldn’t want my fiancé going out for drinks with another woman.”

“You don’t have a fiancé though, do you?”

There’s something about the way he says it—crisply and with an unnatural lilt—that makes it clear he means this as an insult. But if he is attempting to shut down her questioning his motives in asking her for drinks, when he is engaged to another woman, he’s going to be sorely disappointed.

“No, that’s right, I’m not. But tell me about yours. I’m terribly curious.”

He scans the crowd, letting an uncomfortably long pause develop, until his gaze finally falls on her and he shrugs one shoulder. “I’m pissed at her right now.”

“So sorry to hear that.”

Dany has a feeling being the focus of Joff’s ire isn’t an enviable position to be in, fat diamond ring or no.

“She’s obsessed with people liking her. She wants the whole world to be in love with her.”

“And that’s a problem for you?”

“She wants to outshine me. Blogging about our engagement on her stupid blog, where she posts about the gays and flowers.”

“You sound very fond of her.”

He reaches for the bottle again. “No excuses, one more shot.”

Dany lets him pour it, but stares off in feigned distraction as if someone or something has caught her eye, when he moves to hand it to her.

“Hey,” he says, bumping her arm. “I’m leaving this here for you. Drink up, sweetheart.”

“Leaving?”

In which case, she’s going to bounce as well.

“I’m going to slip the DJ a little incentive,” he says, reaching into his wallet. He pulls out a fistful of crisp bills, and pinching them between his fingers, lets her see the denomination. One hundred dollars. Five of them. “Get him to play some of my music, and then I'll be back.”

There are about five hundred better ways Dany can think of disposing of the money, none of them related to tipping a DJ. Of course, she could tell him that Satin already agreed to play whatever she wants, but she would rather the DJ go home with that money in his pocket than for it to still be in Joffrey’s. Five hundred dollars will probably buy a week of groceries for a bachelor. Although Dany’s not exactly sure, because she has someone who does her shopping for her and she doesn’t pay close attention to the bills that are left on her desk.

She can see the bob of Joff's blond hair for about half the distance between this section and the raised DJ booth. He’s tall, but she loses him before he actually reaches the booth. The second shot is sitting there on the table, along with the other one he’s never managed to take. She kicks her foot out, toeing the tray until the shots topple over, spilling their contents over the black, plastic surface. She’s tempted to do the same with the bottle sitting alongside, but that would be wasteful. There might be someone here who would enjoy it, once she decides it’s safe to bow out for the night.

A shot is the equivalent of a couple of beers. Does that mean she can assure Viserys tomorrow that she did her best to charm the Lannister boy over drinks? Because she’s ready to leave. Not only is she sick of talking to someone this vile, she’s also getting inexplicably sleepy. Which is odd, because she came here well rested, and one shot is hardly enough to put her to sleep.

But then she begins to wonder if she really did only have one shot. The remaining shot glasses are knocked over and she tries counting them three times before giving up. She’s pretty sure she had one anyway, and there’s no one to ask except the bouncer or the waitress, and when she turns her head to look their way, she promptly forgets what she wanted from them. Nothing else to drink, that’s for sure. She’s drunk enough as it is.

She should call her driver and let him know she’s had a little too much to drink. Some of the people that work for her are as good as blood. Jhaqo’s one of them. On the rare occasion she overindulges, he’s  nice about coming in to get her from whatever club she’s at, so she’s not photographed stumbling around like a boob. Moves the car around the back too, so she has a bit of privacy. A total savior. White knight on the horse and everything. Except he drives a black limo.

She fumbles for her phone and knocks it to the floor in a clumsy effort to wrap her fingers around it. It's no wonder she drops it, because her fingers feel almost numb. Thankfully the bouncer sees it skitter across the floor and bends down to retrieve it before someone steps on it and cracks the screen. She really is thankful someone is on top of their game tonight, when she’s beginning to feel a touch ill, but when he places it back in her outstretched hand, the words can’t seem to make it from her brain to her tongue. All she manages is a lazy kind of nod that makes the guy smile back at her like she’s an imbecile.

Being left temporarily mute by her drowsiness or the vodka or some shitty combination of the two allows the loneliness she usually keeps at bay creep in around her, in spite of the hot press of the crowd. Coming here alone was a bad idea, and she’s not completely sure what possessed her to go out tonight anyway.

She should call someone. Anyone. Then she’ll have some company.

That’s why she grabbed her phone after all, she thinks staring down at the phone she holds frozen above her lap. She rolls her eyes at herself and paws at it until it comes to life. She opens and closes her camera twice, taking one crooked shot of her lap, before getting to her folder of contacts. Scrolling too fast, the names end up a blur. Sucks. There was someone she really wanted to talk to.

Not Quaithe, her celebrity astrologist, though the screen stops on her with what almost seems like prescience. When Dany’s sober, Quaithe’s readings sound like riddles, hardly helpful at all. She’s in no mood for that.

Viserys won’t do either. He would look at her with that accusing glare if he showed up here. He would end up interrogating her about what she’s actually done to help him lately, when he’s needed her the most. Her brother resents everything she has, including the three Fabergé eggs that have been in the family for years. What does he want with them? He'd sell them, separating the collection. That's why they were given to her in the trust. He doesn't get that. He thinks he deserves it all, which is why he would come here looking burnt out and angry. Remind her of how much she owes him. Accuse her of not loving him anymore. Accuse her of being selfish and sloppy.

She feels more than a little sloppy. _I think I might vomit_ , she thinks to tell the waitress in case she needs to be ready with a bucket, but her voice has completely deserted her.

There has to be someone she can call, so she can tell them how sick she feels and how she can’t speak and how she’s alone. Her finger sluggishly drags down the screen away from Viserys and Quaithe and fifty other contacts that slide right by.

Jorah’s name is still in there. Mocking her. He’d come, and he’d help get her home, because he's always been her hero. He would lift her right up, since her legs feel like stone. Wouldn’t even make her feel bad afterward about how drunk she let herself get.

But he hasn’t called her in weeks. Her finger slips and his contact information opens up.

 **Blocked**.

That can’t be right.

 **Unblock**.

Better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't have to tell any of you that Jon's chapter is up next.


	33. Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are too many people Jon has no interest in crossing paths with at the Night's Watch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can see Sansa’s dress inspiration can be found [here](http://www.saksfifthavenue.com/main/ProductDetail.jsp?FOLDER%3C%3Efolder_id=2534374306422146&PRODUCT%3C%3Eprd_id=845524446771481&R=706277131507&P_name=ABS&N=306422146&bmUID=kGmQL_G).

Chapter Thirty-Two: Jon

Jon didn’t want to come here. The Night’s Watch was somewhere he wouldn’t have minded hanging out in the past, but lately it’s been drawing the attention of such social notables as Renly Baratheon, the popular club backer. Which makes it the kind of place Jon and company potentially could have had some difficulty gaining entrance.

Bouncers might let Sansa in wherever she shows up, but the rest of them aren’t as immediately recognizable. Or attractive. Being Ned Stark’s grown, fake kid doesn’t open the kind of doors some people might expect, and while Theon happily drops his father’s name whenever possible, Jon has personally witnessed people refusing to believe Theon was who he said he was. They’re both a pair of important losers, and Sam and his girlfriend Gilly wouldn’t even be considered important losers by the guy working the door, which could have left the majority of their party standing out in the cold. Fortunately, Jon knows the guy that DJs here. It’s the only reason they were all ushered through the door without any fuss.

As they shouldered through the crowd, Jon thought he might regret agreeing to come here, but now he’s so grateful he’s been seeing his counselor and that he’s in better mental shape than he was a year ago, because tonight is going to be different. Tonight’s already different: tonight he’s standing in the middle of a thrashing crowd and it’s Sansa’s arms draped around his neck, silencing the roar and making everyone else feel a million miles away.

It took an almost obsessive level of interior monologue to prepare himself to ask her, but once he did, there was no hesitation on her part. Not even when he reminded her what a terrible dancer he is to give her an out if that’s what she wanted.

_I’d love to._

But it’s Jon’s pleasure. She may have been the one that was excited to come here, but he can’t think of anyplace he’d rather be.

Sansa did her research. Chose something black to wear so as to fit in with the scene and mile high heels that put him eye to eye with her. Of course, she still looks more refined than anyone else in the place. A high necked, sequined sheath with sleeves that stop just short of her wrists is Sansa’s version of Night’s Watch chic. Other than the youthful length, the only thing that sets it apart from the evening dresses her mother wears is the way it’s open in the back in a wide, low scoop. Well, not quite open: her back is covered by a panel of sheer, black fabric, but the way the length of her spine is obscured and yet still completely visible makes it impossible for Jon not to stare anytime her back is turned. He’s been mentally tracing that dip and the track of the exposed zipper that ends there ever since he touched it in his room, when she appeared unannounced, the neckline of her dress hanging loose, and turned, tossing a look over her shoulder that was inexplicably shy, despite having come down three flights for this express purpose.

_Zip me up?_

He’s careful not to touch the smooth mesh above the sequins of her dress that he knows would be warm from the heat of her skin. His hands are placed safely on her hips, loose enough to be respectful. That doesn’t stop her from clinging to him. Nothing about the newness of this seems to bother her. She tilts her head back, singing along with the music, and while he can’t hear her voice, he knows how beautiful she sounds even when she’s goofing.

She’s happy.

It buoys him up, carrying him along on a wave of confidence that keeps him from fixating on how he’s moving or if people are watching or whether she’d rather be somewhere else with someone else. Until well into the third song, when she smiles and whispers against his ear that he’s not so bad, there’s nothing to do but pull her tight against him and try to keep his mind from reversing the track of that zipper—even with his fingertips digging into the softness of her hips, there’s a line he won’t cross.

It doesn’t matter that he can’t dance. The songs pulse fast, which doesn’t promote his usual middle school Y dancing, but all they’re really doing is pressing against each other while people gyrate around them. It should be a minefield for him. The crowd, the noise, the closeness would have set his teeth on edge a year ago, but it’s Sansa and it’s okay.

The brain is a funny thing. It mistakes danger for sex. In combat situations, your body responds the same way it does during arousal: an uptick in your heart rate, hyper focused attention, sweaty palms, and deep breaths. It’s electricity that pops along your veins. A wide-eyed wakefulness that’s more alert than normal. Guys get addicted to the feeling in the service. Danger junkies. When they get out, they seek out high risk situations. They seek out sex. It’s worse when the drugs they have you on numb you, make everything a flat line. Or when the same situations that made you feel alive now leave you rocking in the corner.

This is the kind of environment that could take him to that place of shattered reality, but instead it’s the good kind of itch that has him wanting to climb out of his skin. The kind of push that makes him brush her cheek with his nose, drawing a line next to her ear that he wants to end with a kiss.

“Hey. You’re amazing.”

“You’re sweet,” she says with a wriggle that makes him wet his lips.

“No, I mean it.”

She kisses his cheek. Not the way he wants to kiss her—along her jaw line and moving over her pulse, slowly, purposefully. But it’s not sisterly either. Not when her fingers trail up into his hairline, nails lightly skimming his scalp, triggering a pleasant shiver that starts all the way at the base of his spine.

“I know you do. It’s why I love you.”

He loves her too. He’s been in love with her for months, for a year probably. He was indifferent at best before Robb, and now she’s the one. He wants her and wants something better for her all at the same time. It’s why he wants to get better, works so hard at getting better, so he’ll be better for her. She’s everything, but he doesn’t know how to tell her—or show her—without complicating things more than they already are. Stepping over that line would mean disrespecting the man who took him in, when he didn’t have anyone left.

Jon has lost hours alone in the basement to wondering how long he can live in this liminal place and not give in to the impulses that tug at him, but it can’t be that long when she looks to the right towards where they left their friends. “Should we check on them?”

He wants to say no and stay in this moment for the rest of the night, but it’s an odd trio they left behind. Sam and Gilly don’t know Theon, and Theon might not be the best company after they deserted them. He seemed pissed, when Jon and Sansa broke up his attempt to get shots for everyone by announcing they were headed for the dance floor. It would look funny too, staying all night here alone.

“Yeah. We can give your toes a rest,” he says, though he has miraculously avoided trodding on her patent leather heels.

There’s a strange kind of forward motion that carries them towards their friends, as they leave the dance floor. It’s as if the crowd is boiling over. There’s a buzz, a feeling that everyone around them is angling towards something and shouting at once, and as they reach the group, Jon stumbles sideways a step when someone knocks into them. He slips his arm around Sansa’s waist to keep her from being similarly jostled on those towering heels. His instinct isn’t missed by the others. Theon might be giving him a stony glare, but Gilly is all smiles like a proud mama as she grasps his elbow and squeezes.

It’s not the first time he’s been on the receiving end of this silent signal. Earlier tonight, when Sam and Gilly arrived at their townhouse, dressed for an evening out and bearing brightly wrapped gifts, Gilly kissed him on the cheek and whispered a pointed greeting delivered with a pincher like squeeze. _You going to ask her to dance?_

Sam tells Gilly everything and she apparently has an elephantine memory. Which is fine. There’s no harm in Gilly knowing how lame his interactions with the opposite sex are, but he didn’t need Gilly’s pressure to course correct. When he promised Sansa he’d come out, he swore to himself he’d ask her to dance. Tonight was not going to be a repeat of her twenty-first birthday. He wasn’t going to watch Theon be where he wants to be.

She might be confused, but he isn’t.

“Did you see that?” Sansa shouts at them, tipping into Jon as she stands impossibly higher on the tips of her toes to see something. “That was Dany Targaryen.”

When Sansa set her heart on coming here, it made Jon anxious to think this was the kind of place where the Starks, Greyjoys, and Baratheons could all potentially rub shoulders. Be in the middle of all that didn’t appeal. He didn’t think to worry about the media frenzy that follows someone like Dany Targaryen.

She’s made more visible in the dark of the club by the shock of her braided blond hair. It will be in all the blogs tomorrow. Not the good kind of tale either, when she’s leaving and not under her own power.

That’s what the buzz is about. More than just their little group stops to watch New York’s very own princess get carried out of the Night’s Watch. She’s noodle limp with her head thrown back in the arms of some middle aged guy, who’s carrying her as if she doesn’t weigh much more than a sack of potatoes. If the guy’s smart, he’ll ask about a more private exit or there will be embarrassing photos to accompany whatever write up is inevitable.

Gilly twists around Jon, angling towards Sansa. “Dany who?”

“Targaryen. She’s a princess,” Sansa explains, craning her neck to follow their exit. “Do you think she’s okay?”

“Maybe we should leave,” Sam says.

Theon swipes the air in front of him as if batting something away. “No way, man. Don’t wuss out on me. We just got here.”

Dany being toted out of someplace unconscious would normally be of some interest to Theon, but not tonight. He made it clear a week ago, when Sansa floated the idea of a big group outing, that he’s been dying to come here for weeks. He probably wouldn’t have been able to get in on his own. This is his big chance.

Jon doesn’t want the night to end, when there’s the potential of dancing with Sansa again after an appropriate amount of time with the group, but it is unnerving to see a girl in that kind of state. “There’s probably somewhere else we can hang out. Somewhere socialites aren’t getting dragged out unconscious.”

His suggestion earns him an eye roll from Theon. “She’s fine. Too much to drink or something.”

“Jon’s right, I think. Maybe if this place is kind of rough, we should leave,” Sam says in his weak declarative fashion. Although no one other than Jon and Gilly, who are pressed close to Sam’s side, can possibly hear his mutterings over the pounding music. “For the girls’ sakes.”

“We’ve got a long night ahead of us. What’s everyone drinking?” Theon asks, ignoring their reluctance to hang around, as he gestures to the semi circular bar. “This round will be on me.”

Sansa, however excited to come here, is still fixated on the exit, her red bottom lip caught between her teeth. “She was missing a shoe.”

Not exactly a Cinderella story either.

“She can afford another,” Theon says with a wink.

Maybe that wink is as charming as Jon fears or maybe Theon wins the day through persistence, but the girls agree to stay. The crowd loses interest after Dany’s disappearance, the press of bodies is alleviated, and on Theon’s third offer of free drinks, Gilly and Sansa finally give their drink orders before linking arms and heading for the restroom.

“What about you two?” Theon asks, as he fishes in his back pocket for his wallet. “What can I get you?”

“Nothing for me,” Sam says with a shake of his head.

Sam will never say it, but Jon can tell he’s angry. He doesn’t like that they’ve stayed after what they just saw.

He’s not alone in feeling uneasy. Jon hasn’t been comfortable in a crowd since he came home from Afghanistan. It’s especially unnerving when he can’t see everyone he needs to keep track, so while he rationally knows whatever happened to Dany Targaryen probably poses no risk to him or any of the rest of his friends, that voice in the back of his head urges him to watch the girls as they make their way towards the restroom. He’ll probably count seconds until they emerge arm in arm again too.

It’s why he can’t look Theon in the eye as he asks for a beer. Theon steps into his line of sight, blocking Jon’s view of the girls. Maybe Theon didn’t hear him. “A beer. Cheapest is fine. Whatever.”

“I’m not concerned about what type of beer to get you. I just wanted to ask you something.”

Jon crosses his arms over his chest as anxiety stiffens every muscle in his upper body. “Go for it,” Jon says, breathing in deep, as his eyes flick to where the girls should be if he could actually see them.

“I thought Sansa was too young. Or was that only true for me?”

Theon doesn’t wait for a response, stalking away towards the bar with his hands jammed in his pockets. Which is good, because Jon doesn’t really have one for him and as soon as Theon moves out of the way, he can get back to the job of finding Gilly and Sansa.

“Can you see the girls?” he asks Sam, although his friend is a head shorter than him and not likely to be able to spot them if the crowd refuses to cooperate and part.

That’s when Jon sees him: tall, reedy, curly blond hair, smug bullshit grin that ruins the girlish good looks that must have won Sansa over to begin with. And that asshole has his hand wrapped around her arm.

He’s not aware of walking. Or running. Or whatever he does to bring himself face to face with Joffrey. He’s not even cognizant of pulling his arm back. The room and all the people in it disappear in a dark funnel that opens on Joffrey. Like ending up in his face, nose to nose with him, or even shoving him backward with a good, hard shove is the only option left to Jon. He’s got this sneer that just begs to be wiped off, so Jon does it for him.

That’s the first thing Jon really feels. The crunch of bone under his fist reverberates up his arm, and as his arm pulls back, fist still clenched, a look of shock dawns on Joffrey’s dumb face. He reaches up to touch the blood already pouring over his pouty lip. Seeing bright red smeared over the tips of his fingers, his lips begin to move, saying or yelling something that Jon doesn’t hear before he hits him again. The second punch takes him down, scattering silhouettes of people, who jump to get out of Joff’s path as he tumbles backward or Jon’s as he lurches forward to fall on him.

It’s automatic. It comes from someplace inside, where it’s been hidden. Joffrey can’t even get his hands up to protect his face. Jon splits his lip, pulls back, lets fly again, and catches him in the orbital socket. Two more quick socks to the chin and he rocks back to strike the side of Joffrey’s head that’s exposed, when something grabs hold of Jon, pulling him back onto his haunches with a jerk hard enough to whip his head like a can tab.

The fight goes right out of him. Like a puppet with the strings cut, he goes limp as he remembers where he is. It’s impossible not to remember. The world comes back, slamming down around him. Fast. But the club noise and flashing lights war with the other images popping in his brain—explosions, gunshots, the flash of powder. He shakes his head, trying to shake free of the horrific mess, but it’s too much to fend off and he barely registers Sam and Theon’s arms looping through his and yanking him to his feet. He sways, shutting out Joff curled on the dirty club floor, fetal with his head rolled to the side and mouth gaping like a fish.

If you feel yourself losing control, count breaths, focus on a spot, find a quiet place and go there until you can zero in on that. Or shut down entirely, when it’s all still too much. That’s where he is. He’s in that place that’s too dark to retreat from.

They pull him through the crowd, his mind jumping with heightened awareness. Every eye feels turned on him. Every head twice its size as it slants in to gape. There isn’t a person in the place who doesn’t tower over him, blocking their exit and staring back at him with giant dark holes where their eyes and mouths should be.

He needs to get eyes on every member of his team, but he can’t make out one goddamn face.

Sansa. His head pivots, seeking her out in the crowd. It’s his job to protect her, and instead, he’s the one that made the whole place go mad.

“Hey,” Sam says close to Jon’s ear. “She’s right behind us with Gilly.”

Sam must be right, because when the cold wall of air hits them, she slips into the widening window of his vision. She’s in one piece. Not one hair out of place or one mark on her pale skin, as she curls into his side. His brain stops hissing. The sub-zero temps are better than any mint or ice cube he’s ever popped in his mouth to shock himself back into reality. Her arms slips around his waist, replacing the firmer hold Theon and Sam had on him, but he walks without further aid. His feet plod over the sidewalk as if on autopilot.

“Are you okay?” she asks, as she tucks her head into the crook of his neck.

He manages to mumble something like a yes, but her furrowed brow peering up at him doesn’t relay confidence in his response.

“He’s fine. It’s the other guy that’s wrecked,” Theon says, herding them all forward.

Her teeth chatter next to his skin. “Did someone call the driver?”

“No time, sweetheart,” Theon says, sticking his hand out to hail a cab. “You two need to get the hell out of here.”

Sam nods. “We’ll catch the next one.”

As the cold thins the mental fog Jon’s been socked in, he’s aware enough to know that he really embarrassed himself and his friends will pay for his behavior if they have to wait around in the cold for another available cab to find its way past them. “You all go. I’ll wait.”

“For the cops?” Theon asks with arched brows.

“Theon and Sam are right,” Gilly agrees, kissing Sansa on the cheek and then turning her around by the shoulders, as a cab pulls over and Theon grabs for the door handle. “We’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Thanks for ruining a good time, man,” Theon says, thumping Jon on the back, while Sansa crawls across the bench seat. Jon deserves that. For once he was having a good time. Sansa was too, and he ruined it. Probably ruined everything with her too. “Now get the fuck out of here.”

Joffrey Lannister shouldn’t ever touch Sansa again. Shouldn’t speak to her. Shouldn’t even be in the same goddamn city as her. If Sansa wants to hate Jon forever for the way he acted, that’s something he’ll have to learn to live with. He acted like an animal, but Joff is something far worse.

By the time they’ve ridden home in silence and climbed the steps to their home, Jon’s set to apologize—for the fight, for giving people the wrong impression about them, for causing her trouble, for everything. Let her decide whether she’ll accept or not, and then go downstairs and drink one, two, maybe three beers until his head stops pounding and he passes out. It’s stupid to pin his hopes on it, but maybe she’ll be kind enough to forget this night ever happened and they can go back to dancing around each other.

He’s prepared for her reproach, but as they reach the elevator, Sansa put his plans on pause. “Your hand’s going to hurt tomorrow. Let me ice it for you.”

He could refuse and assure her he can take care of it himself. After his behavior tonight, he shouldn’t accept her offer, but it would take more strength than he possesses at the moment to turn her down. The first time he felt that low pull was while she fussed over him. At the time, it felt wrong to react that way, since she fusses the same exact way over her little brothers. It’s harder to feel properly guilty about it now. That’s the way these things go, he supposes. You let it happen a few times and finally you’re picturing yourself unzipping her dress while the rest of your friends talk with the driver about where they’re headed for the night.

He hovers at the entrance to the kitchen, watching her. Humming a song they were dancing to tonight, she goes to the drawer with the neatly folded towels inside. Practice taught her that an ice bag applied directly on the skin makes the boys yelp. She closes the drawer with her hip and moves to the freezer. It’s a bottom drawer freezer, and Jon looks away, staring resolutely forward as she bends down to pull it open. He’s not drunk: there’d be no excuse if he took advantage of the view.

“Just like Mama does,” she says, holding up the Ziploc baggie of ice as she taps the freezer shut with the bottom of her heel. “You gonna come in?”

He walks over to her, his throbbing hand hanging at his side, while she wraps the grey and white checkered towel around the baggie. He’ll take the ice and then he’ll apologize and tell her to go to bed, he thinks, slumping against the counter. He’s on the verge of shaking with exhaustion, an after effect of an episode, so the counter will have to hold him up for a while.

“Gimme your hand, please.”

He wants to wince—that son of a bitch has a hard head—but he keeps his face blank, while he straightens out his fingers and places it in the palm of her outstretched hand. She eases the cold towel over it, and other than exhaling, he manages not to give any other sign of discomfort.

“You boys are always getting into scrapes.”

“This one probably could have been avoided.”

“I know he’s volatile. I didn’t go up to him to tell him off or anything,” she says in a quieter voice, running her finger along the top of the towel, following the line of checks. “He came up to me.”

“Hey,” he says, sandwiching her hand between his iced one and his uninjured left hand. “I meant I should have avoided it. I lost control. Seeing him with you.”

“Was it an episode?”

“I think so.”

Although, it wasn’t like anything he ever experienced before. He wouldn’t be the first Vet to snap. His counselor warned him about this kind of thing. It’s usually the family that suffers, when a Vet loses sight of the boundaries of civilian life. Lashing out at one of his family would make him as bad as Joffrey.

“Sansa, I’m sorry.”

She slides her feet in closer to him, bringing herself right between his thighs. “Don’t be. He had it coming.”

That and more, which should have made rearranging Joffrey’s face satisfying, but what Jon really wants is for him to disappear off the face of the planet, so Sansa never has to think of him again.

She peeks under the towel and frowns. “Are you okay? Nothing’s broken?”

“Yeah. I’ll be fine. The ice helps.”

His knuckles are swollen and the one is cracked. He’ll need to wash and bandage it when he gets downstairs, but he can’t complain. His hand will be better in a couple of days. Sansa is the one who will be the most affected by his behavior. There will be talk.

“I’m sorry for whatever trouble tonight causes.”

“It’ll be worth it,” she says, lips pursing. “I enjoyed it more than I should have.”

It’s been a tough few weeks for Sansa, reliving what Joff put her through. Her friend Margaery made a big show of hanging up on her and unfollowing her on tumblr, when Sansa tried to warn her about what her fiancé was capable of.

Margaery might be fool enough to accuse Sansa of being a jealous ex, but Jon knows the truth. It was bad enough when he thought the guy dumped Sansa while she was grieving the loss of her brother. If Jon would have run into Joffrey a couple of months ago, he would have had some choice words for him. Now there’s not a single thing he cares to ever say to that coward. Men who push around women are the worst kind of cowards, using their advantage in height or weight or strength or whatever to make themselves feel big. Bullies. And just like bullies, they use their words to break their wives and girlfriends down as much as they do their fists.

“What did he say to you?”

“Nothing I haven’t thought about myself.” Sansa shakes her head, as if dismissing something. “He saw us, I guess. Dancing.”

“Maybe,” Jon starts, but he can’t bring himself to finish the thought: maybe we shouldn’t have done that. “Maybe you should go to bed,” he says instead, pulling back his hand to set the ice bag on the counter. Because if dancing was a bad idea, so is this.

“I don’t want to go to bed,” Sansa says, slipping in closer, bringing her hips flush with his.

Her hands slide up around his neck, over his collar, and his breath catches in his throat. He can’t feel his fucked up hand or the edge of the granite countertop pressing into his back. Can’t feel anything other than her body curving into his, and without the ice bag to hold onto, he doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

“I like your hair like this,” she says, looping her fingers through the curls at the base of his head. When she came into the kitchen, she only flipped on one set of overhead lights. The room is mostly dark and with her lids half closed, what light there is throws a shadow from her mascara thickened lashes over her cheeks. “It’s better than that awful high and tight haircut you had in the Army.”

He has to swallow hard to get the words out. “I can’t stand to get it cut.”

“Are you vain, Jon?” she teases, her tongue poking at the corner of her lips.

It isn’t vanity. It’s that the ugly faded scar by his eye is reminder enough of what happened when he looks in the mirror. He doesn’t need to look anything like before. Gone is the rigidity of his uniform. Gone is the tidy, short cut. Traded in for t-shirts and jeans and a mess of hair.

Her head tilts to the side, eyes flicking from his eyes to his lips and back. He can’t help but do the same. Her lips are bowed and full and glisten from where she’s wet them. And her eyes. Shit. She’s probably been told a dozen times by guys that she’s got pretty eyes, but the triteness of the observation doesn’t make it any less true. Blue as the sky.

“I didn’t think there were guys like you. I mean, I convinced myself there weren’t.”

He shouldn’t ask. He’s going to regret asking. “What am I like?”

Her lips capture his bottom lip only long enough to stop Jon’s heart. Short, tentative with eyes wide open—it’s no more than a hint of something.

She pulls back an inch, hands clutching his shoulders and her breath puffing against his mouth. She smells like mint. She had Tic Tacs in the cab. Tapped them out in the palm of her hand and wordlessly offered him one. Where the hell does someone hide a box of Tic Tacs in a dress like this?

His hand closes around her waist. The sequins, the ones that have caught the light and his attention all night, flip up, dragged upward by the course of his hand until it reaches the point between her shoulder blades, where the sheer fabric is as warm as he imagined except for the cold, hard zipper. He pulls her fast against him. From her long, half bared thighs to her soft breasts, she molds to him like liquid mercury. But it’s the little noise she makes in the back of her throat when he closes his eyes and presses his mouth to hers that goes straight to that low point in his abdomen.

Her hands slide down over his shoulders to grip his biceps, and his muscles flex at the bite of her nails through his shirt. It’s a sharp contrast to the softness of her lips that taste of lipstick and a lingering mintiness, when he pulls at first the lower and then the top. She shifts, rubbing against him as her head tips back and her mouth opens for his tongue. One stroke and she makes it again, that needy, pitched hum, and he flips them around, reversing their positions against the counter to get closer, to climb inside her. He leans in, his whole body strung tight, save for the hand that moves to cup her cheek, and her back arches, following the bend of his body. She pulls one leg up between them, and he can’t hold back the moan that rumbles in his chest.

A jolt shoots through him at the creak that interrupts his exploration of the possibilities in kissing Sansa. She must have heard it—the sound of someone coming down the back stairs—a split second before him, because she pushes him away, stiff armed, cutting off the kiss. She moves fast, gaining two feet from Jon with her push, but it’s not enough time to craft a plausible lie about what they’re doing here in the kitchen at this hour or why Sansa’s lips are smeared.

A head eases around the corner. Osha, Jon realizes with a great, chest collapsing exhalation. As people go, who could crawl out of the stairwell at this moment, Jon thinks she might be among the better options.

“I just want some water,” Osha says, as she walks into the room.

It sounds like she’s apologizing, and if she thinks there’s something to apologize for, they’re not doing the best job of looking like nothing was going on. Usually Sansa is the one to come through with a perky response to whatever scenario they’re thrust into, no matter how she’s feeling on the inside, but she stands there, arms bent back and fingers gripping the countertop, giving Osha the fakest smile he’s ever seen.

He should say something. Ask if Mr. and Mrs. Stark are home yet or whether the boys were good for her tonight. Something. But he can’t even glance over at Osha, who goes about her business in his peripheral vision, rising up on her toes to open a cabinet, retrieving a glass, walking towards the sink, turning on the faucet to let the water run. All he can do is stare at Sansa and pant, as his breathing refuses to slow.

Osha stands there, filling her glass to the rim, and he takes a step back. To make things look less intimate. Less like Osha just interrupted something.

Something has definitely been interrupted that can’t be rewound. It’s no wonder Sansa’s fingers are white, wrapped around the edge of the countertop. It feels as if the world has slipped off its axis and he might slide right off its face into some abyss of endless want.

He can sense Osha’s eyes on them both, as she puts her hip into the counter and brings the glass up to her lips.

Sansa gives a little wave from the hip that could be intended for either of them. There’s no way of telling, when she won’t make eye contact. And then she’s gone. The way she hurries from the room feels like yet another dead giveaway.

Osha’s lips smack as she swallows and lowers her glass. “She looked pretty.”

“Yeah, Sansa always looks beautiful.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tumblr character blogs are likely to be pretty active for a while if you want to follow that element of the story.


	34. Catelyn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cat and Ned disagree on how to handle Jon's fight.

Chapter Thirty-Three: Catelyn

Catelyn picks up the ringing phone, fingers gripping its black rubberized case, looks at the caller-id, and turns it around to face Ned. Eyes fixed on the illuminated phone, he leans back in his green upholstered arm chair with a sigh. Not that he can make out the number from where he sits at his computer a few feet away from her on his sofa, flipping through today's blogs, but he doesn't need to see to know. It isn't a friendly caller. None of them are. Even the few so-called friends who have called have done so out of poorly concealed nosiness.

"Another one, Ned. It's getting worse."

She ends the phone's piercing ring with a click and brings the phone to rest in the lap of her grey, cashmere dress, waiting for it to bark again with further proof of what a mess they're all sunk in.

The phone calls started Sunday. Cat made the mistake of answering the first one, while she was making waffles with strawberries. With the phone pinned between her cheek and shoulder, she nearly dropped the mixing bowl tucked against her side and gave a dumbfounded response to the stranger's questions. It didn't help the situation. When a reporter calls, it's best to be prepared. Cat makes sure to always be prepared, so much so that Ned teases that she was born to be a politician's wife. But how could she have known what Jon had done the previous night, while she and Ned were at a charity event, acting like civilized people?

No one had seen fit to tell her. When her children were babies, they were eager to report each other's minor offenses, but at some point that changed. It happens with all of them, as they become cohorts in crime, instead of fleet footed little tattlers.

There was never any cause for the others to tattle on Jon. He was the oldest and most responsible. His scrapes were always inoffensive and more often than not inspired by Robb, who was full of good natured mischief. Of all the things she worries about, Jon getting into serious trouble never made the list.

Sansa she worries about. It didn't used to be that way. Life's changed in the past couple of years in ways Cat could have never imagined.

Knowing what Petyr did to Sansa keeps Cat up at night. More so, because it's a burden she carries alone due to the promise she made her daughter. If Ned found out, Jon might not be the only one making the news for having beaten someone to a pulp.

Thinking about predators like Petyr waiting to take advantage of Sansa isn't ever far from her thoughts, but Cat puts her fears to rest when Jon is part of the plans. Jon is trustworthy and his friends are harmless. Theon is a bit of a charmer, but Sansa has never shown any interest there and Jon wouldn't let anything inappropriate happen on his watch. Cat took solace in that, when she and Ned left for the evening before Sansa even finished putting on her makeup for a big night out. Cat assumed it would involve dancing and drinks. A slightly more sophisticated take on going out than what she experienced at San's age. She was assured that her daughter would be safe and hopefully enjoy herself for the night. Something she deserved after she worked so hard last semester at school and in her internship.

Then Cat found out exactly what Jon had been up to, instead of watching out for her eldest, and any comfort she derived from Jon accompanying Sansa somewhere died a quick death.

Ned pinches the bridge of his nose with one hand, his other one slowly inching the mouse aimlessly around the screen. "We need to keep ignoring them. Wait it out. The twenty-four hour news cycle moves awfully quickly."

Not quickly enough. The calls have been increasing as word of Jon's fight with Joffrey spreads from the original one or two blogs that broke the story to a full blown PR crisis across multiple media platforms, turning Ned's home office into a war room staffed by the two of them. When Ned goes back to Washington, as he says he must by the end of the week, she supposes it will be a battle she'll have to wage alone.

"Someone asked Arya about it at school yesterday." If any of the children are liable to take up the cause and defend Jon, it's her. They've always been an inseparable pair. She was his baby as much as Cat's, since he latched on to her the minute he was bustled through the door by Luwin. But where Jon is careful, Arya is impulsive, and if one of the kids is going to blacken someone's eye for repeating the rumors about Jon, it's Arya. "You know how she can be."

Ned closes one tab on the browser, but there's another open behind it with more on the incident. She can't make out the website from this angle, but sites covering Jon's fight are all he's been looking at for hours.

"Arya will be fine. They've all been told to hold their tongues."

"I hope you're right."

"They're good kids, Cat. You raised them right."

"I know, but he set a very bad example. You have to acknowledge that."

"I have. We told the kids it was the wrong thing to do. Jon told them too. That's what they'll remember."

Cat isn't so sure about that. None of the kids have known a life without Jon Snow, and they all look up to him—more so with Robb gone. Rickon already has the unfortunate tendency to try to solve his problems with the use of force. Won't this story of Jon hitting Sansa's old boyfriend only reinforce the notion that violence is acceptable?

When they took Jon in, they welcomed a child into their home who had been raised to someone else's standards. She understood what that could mean for her own children. They could pick up his bad habits or learn foul words from a child not as carefully sheltered as she sheltered their little brood. It was a concern. And then he arrived on their doorstep, and he was the most cooperative, quietest boy. There'd been nothing unwholesome her children could have learned from him until now.

"What does Luwin say about this?"

"I haven't asked."

She uncrosses her legs and turns them to the side, knees pressed together. "You need to ask, Ned. This could get out of hand if we don't deal with it."

Ned ought to be furious. What was Jon thinking, brawling like a common hoodlum? In front of Sansa and a bunch of strangers, at least a dozen of whom have apparently contacted the press with oodles of juicy details to share. Did he take a moment to think how this might reflect on the family? On Ned? Or was he too intoxicated to care? He claims he wasn't drunk, but what else would account for something that of out of character?

_He was disrespectful._

That's all Ned got out of Jon, when he grilled him about what happened. He wouldn't repeat one word of whatever it is Joffrey said to him that got him so hot under the collar. But when the topic came up, he turned as red as a beetroot, making Cat think he wasn't as contrite as he claimed to be.

He was making a good show of it—acting quiet without being sullen and going the extra mile lending a hand where one was needed. Cat hasn't worried about bath time once this week, because Jon's been on top of it, and Arya's homework is finished before Cat ever gets home from her charitable responsibilities. Even Sansa has been properly seen to. Cat's been packing a well rounded lunch for Sansa for months, to ensure she didn't end up drinking one sugary coffee after another in place of eating. Two days this week, Sansa left her pink polka dot, reusable Kate Spade lunch bag on the counter, and Jon has brought it to her both times without being asked. He isn't one to act put out by trivialities, but the traffic must have been terrible, since it took him more than an hour to get back home.

"I am dealing with it."

They're stalling. That's it.

Cat tucks her hair behind her ear and stands with the phone still clutched before her. "Luwin can advise you as to whether you should make a statement to the media or the police or whether we need to deny the whole thing," she says, stepping closer to look over his shoulder at the computer screen. The blogs are using a picture of Jon in his uniform. Both Robb and Jon were so painfully handsome in their uniforms that it made it harder somehow to watch them go off to risk their lives. Handsome boys with the world before them and risking everything. It's a good photo, but that's hardly the point. This is the photo out all the photos they could have chosen of Jon that they're all using. It's the contrast between a shiny symbol of authority and an account of a man who lost control of himself. It tells the story they're itching to tell. "We can't sit here all day watching our phones go off."

"There will be no statements. It's a family matter."

Nothing stays in the family. Ned's position makes everything fair game. Robb's death was public fodder. This is too.

"Is it?"

Ned looks away from the brightly colored webpage, flanked by ads for Disney World and Coke. "Cat."

It's an old argument. One that she knows she shouldn't unearth, but Robb's death reopened the wound, and while it's scabbed over, it's easy enough to pick at it. Particularly when her family feels threatened. Just like it did when Ned got that call from Luwin about Lyanna's will. Then she felt threatened by the prospect of an unhappy boy and what he could mean for their family, threatened by the ghost of Lyanna and her irresponsible choices. Now that boy is a grown man, setting a poor example for her children and drawing unwanted attention to the family.

"That's uncharitable. He's as good as ours."

"No, he's as good as yours. I did my best, but no one was going to replace his dead mother. I knew that going in, but you're wrong if you think it didn't hurt." Another way she can't live up to Lyanna's memory. "And I've lived with him in our basement for nearly two years now. Without a job. No direction. That's more than a lot of women would put up with."

"You're right," he says, placing his hands flat on the varnished surface of the desk. "I'm sorry."

"He's never been happy here. It's no surprise he's ended up like this."

Even as she says it, she knows she isn't being fair. Jon isn't known for being violent. That certainly wasn't what drew Jon to the military. He's a dutiful young man, helpful, service minded, all the qualities that Ned has tried to instill in their children, and Jon might not be his flesh and blood, but he has always been a credit to him.

"This temper of yours, Cat. You end up saying things you don't mean."

"My temper?" she laughs, high and thin. "You look ready to kill whoever published this," she says, reaching across Ned to tap the computer monitor with her clear polished nail.

"I might."

"That would certainly help," she says, depositing her phone next to Ned's on the desk, where they can happily go off together. She lets it fall the last half inch, so it thuds satisfactorily.

"The war did this to him. No one comes back the same from war."

Ned came back different too. Different enough that when he came home from the first Gulf War to her and Robb in arms, she felt like she hardly knew her husband. This is something else entirely, however. No bones about it—from what she has seen, the episodes are scary. If that's what happened when he attacked Joff, it makes his behavior more understandable, but leaves her no more comfortable. "If he's unstable…"

Ned pushes back in his armchair, the feet scraping against the hard floor cutting her off. "He's mad. You're mad too. I'm mad. Arya's mad. All with good reason, but anger isn't productive. We've discussed it. He's talked to his counselor. His drugs are all in order. He won't be repeating this mistake again."

"Good, but Jon's actions will have repercussions for all of us. Particularly you."

Wrapping one arm around her shoulder, he pulls her into his chest. They fit as neatly as her mother's silver spoons, nestled in the silver chest. It might not have always been that way, but what does a dead woman or her son have on what they've built together? Being in his arms loosens the tendrils of anxiety that have wrapped around her throat, allowing her to take a deep breath and return his embrace, pressing her hands over the warm planes of his back.

"It's not me I'm worried about."

Of course it isn't. Ned hardly ever gives thought to his career beyond serving the people as best as he can. Most politicians are narcissists. Not Ned. "Then worry about Sansa."

Today's blogosphere spin is even wilder than the day before, when someone claimed Jon was connected to Dany Targaryen, who was carried out of the club unconscious—an interesting place, this Night's Watch, if that's a typical Saturday night. None of their family has dealings with the two Targaryen young people, who make a practice of appearing in the tabloids, least of all Jon. Ridiculous, but a preferable rumor to today's, which suggests the fight was over Sansa. Both the rumors portray Jon as an avenging knight, but that's likely to change. That's how these stories work, as they morph, changing hero to villain in the blink of an eye.

Jon isn't Ned's son, but no one bothers to make the distinction. As Cat tilts her head in Ned's arms to look down at the screen, Jon's image reflects back at her. He stands there in his uniform, looking enough like Ned that anyone who wants to sensationalize this story further wouldn't have to work very hard at it. It isn't just Ned's reputation that is at stake here: they're all potential victims.

Ned pulls back, holding her at arm's length with his eyebrows raised, creating three deep furrows in his weathered brow. He didn't have those wrinkles when they were married before the priest, her dressed in lace with her face hidden behind a veil and him in a poorly fitting, rented tux.

"Now, you know that's crazy talk. Sansa has been done with that Lannister boy for more than a year, and he's engaged. Whatever this was about, it had nothing to do with her."

Joff is engaged to Sansa's friend, hardly putting a tidy end to that relationship, Cat wants to remind him, but that will only confuse the issue. "I'm not saying it's true. I'm saying people will believe anything they read."

"Okay. You're right," he says, running his hands down her arms and giving her hands a squeeze. "I'll talk to her about it."

"Good luck." Ned gives her a shake of his head. "You haven't noticed? I can hardly get two words out of her. She doesn't speak a word at dinner. Doesn't ever make it down to breakfast before she leaves for her internship. She's so distracted, she'd forget her head if it wasn't attached."

Cat would suspect Sansa is coming down with something, but her color is good. She looks as happy as Cat can remember her looking, except for the bluish circles under her eyes that Sansa says are from late nights working on her homework for fashion school. Or as she puts it succinctly:  _homework_.

"I thought she was back on track."

Cat points at the computer screen, pulling her hand free of Ned's. "She was until Jon about took the head off her ex, Ned."

He reaches over and presses the monitor's power button, shutting it off. "Well, she doesn't seem too upset about that boy getting a beat down."

Sansa was almost chipper about it, when Jon explained at the dinner table in brief to the rest of the children what had happened and how sorry he was for acting that way. Her little half smile was hard to miss, and while she directed it at her plate, Cat knows lasagna doesn't usually wring much approbation from Sansa. Too many carbs.

"Something has her acting completely off."

Ned crosses his arms over his chest and looks down at the floor. "This business has been upsetting for all of us. She and Jon have gotten close. The threat of legal action likely frightens her."

"I don't think it's a threat, Ned. Those people have it out for you. It's real: they could press charges."

Rumors are one thing. They're unpleasant and can be dangerous in their own way, but a legal battle and potential jail time? Cat doesn't want that for Jon or the rest of them. He's a good boy. He made a terrible decision, but he's a good boy.

Ned grimaces. "There's no way. It'd be too humiliating as a young man to admit you got beat like that."

"Not everyone is like you, Ned." Most men aren't like Ned. Most of them shouldn't even be counted in the same category. Hers is superior to the vast majority, and good people are always a target for the bad. The Lannisters are bad people. "This is the perfect opportunity to strike out at us in a way that will smart much worse than eliminating us from party lists."

"I think I know what needs to be done. You're right that we shouldn't just sit here. I'll arrange to meet with Robert and Cersei. Jon can apologize."

"An apology? I sincerely doubt they'd be satisfied with that. They'll want their pound of flesh."

"We'll settle it like adults."

Cat takes Ned's phone off the desk. She knows the password. She knows everything about her husband. Except what kind of hold Lyanna had on him to get him to threaten the happiness of their home with the addition of a pouty twelve year old who was nothing to any of them. Ned risked their happiness to follow through with Lyanna's last wishes. They can't risk it again.

Turning off the lamp on his desk and pushing in his chair, Ned is busy putting an end to this wake they've been holding and mostly distracted, while she types in the password on his phone and opens his contacts folder. There's a name she needs. He's got a good lawyer. One of the best. You need one in Washington, because you never know what you'll be hit with. She holds out the phone, Martell's contact information open on the screen.

"Call Martell, honey."

Ned takes it from her, but instead of pressing 'call,' he locks the phone and slips it into his back pocket. "Oberyn doesn't understand Robert, and I know he can't stand Cersei."

"Sounds perfect."

"No, it'd be a mess bringing him in to deal with this."

"At least give him a call. Or Luwin. Please. We have friends, Ned. You shouldn't be afraid to call on them."

"That boy's been through enough. I won't make it worse by not handling this as privately as possible."

"We've all been through enough."

"Cat," he says, patting her on the hip. "I'll talk to Sansa and give Robert a call. You'll see. This won't amount to anything."


	35. Ned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ned's meeting with Robert has to keep Jon out of trouble. For the sake of all of them.

Chapter Thirty-Four: Ned

Ned almost calls Oberyn Martell. It would be so satisfying to watch Oberyn make mincemeat out of Joffrey. But when Ned’s finished speaking with Sansa about what happened at the Night’s Watch, doesn’t reach for the phone. Instead, he spends a good hour alone in his office, head in his hands, trying to convince himself not to call his lawyer. It isn’t that someone shouldn’t teach Joffrey Lannister a lesson in the true meaning of justice. It’s what that miserable boy deserves. It’s what the boy needs too.

What stills Ned’s hand is the potential that calling in a lawyer will only make things worse. Cat’s not the only one that wants to put a lid on this story; Sansa does too. It’s already been blogged, gossiped, and joked about on the local morning news by talk show hosts wearing too much orange makeup. Making her accusations against Joff public would increase the media circus.

Taking the wrong tact could do more than that. His daughter wants to avoid antagonizing the Lannisters and Baratheons. Knowing what she’s been through, it’s hard not to respect her wishes. She used to think Joffrey hung the moon and stars, but Ned can tell she’s afraid of the whole lot at this point. No wonder. It’s her feeling that if Joff feels backed into a corner by her accusations, he might actually bite. She could be right. The storyline the media is pushing is that Joffrey will be pressing charges, and they might actually know something. The Starks haven’t been offering interviews, but Ned doesn’t imagine Cersei has been quite as tightlipped. They have to deal with the distinct possibility that Jon could be in real trouble.

_Don’t let Jon end up in jail, Daddy. Please._

Cat was right, when she pressed that phone into his hand and urged him to call the lawyer. Considering the complex set of circumstances, dealing with this incident should be left in the hands of a lawyer, and Oberyn would certainly relish the job. But with that option closed to him, Ned still intends on keeping his promise to Sansa.

He has a lot of promises to keep. When Lyanna left Jon to him, she trusted him to raise Jon up right. Lyanna may have been high spirited, made some poor choices in life, some of which hurt him, but she wasn’t a bad person or a bad mother. Jon is proof of that. She wouldn’t thank Ned for allowing the son she loved so much to go to prison for assault.

That’s what this meeting with Robert is about—protecting his family. For a meeting of this import, Robert’s offices in the Darry building wouldn’t be Ned’s first choice. It isn’t what you would call neutral territory. Everyone in the place is loyal to the Baratheons, who cut their paychecks and will continue to do so until the money runs out. The last thing Ned wants is for some ‘helpful’ employee to put in a call to the paparazzi, while he’s here. With assistants and partners potentially popping in and out, meeting in Robert’s offices could also potentially spoil the privacy Ned has hoped for.

Almost anywhere would have been preferable, excluding Robert’s home in New Jersey, where Cersei would be present to muddy the waters of their discussion. This is where Robert wanted to meet, however, and Ned isn’t in a position to make demands. Not yet. Not until he shares with Robert some of the more unsavory details surround this fight.

Nevertheless, as Ned says hello to Robert’s very young executive assistant and is escorted inside the mahogany paneled office where the smell of cigars lingers, he hopes they can end this amicably. Cersei sits in a leather chair beside her husband, but out from behind his massive desk, one long leg crossed over the other. She looks pleased with herself with one brow slightly crooked and her reddened lips pursed.

It was supposed to be just him and Robert. That’s what they discussed on the phone. The shock throws him, and it takes him a second to make the next step into the room and move towards the two of them. Knowing Cersei as he does, his expectations for how this meeting will proceed shift. His approach will need adjusting too.

The room is hung with trophies, beasts Robert has paid good money to shoot in distant locales like Africa and Alaska and Australia. Ned has a trophy or two hanging about too, but he never paid for the pleasure of taking them. That Robert takes a different approaching to sport never bothered him before, but as he walks into his office, hand extended, it occurs to him that he too might end up one of Robert’s trophies if Cersei has her way. Cat warned him this could be the opportunity they’ve looked for to get their revenge for his refusal to back their hastily conceived, dangerous military technology.

“Robert, Cersei. Thank you for meeting with me this morning on such short notice.”

Robert heaves himself out of his chair and sticks out his hand, demonstrating either some lingering friendliness on his part or an ability at least to remain civil, but Cersei sits unmoving, hands wrapped tightly around the arm of her chair. Ned nods at her nonetheless. He’ll need to win them both over. Especially Cersei.

“Good to see you, Ned. Sorry to spring this inquisition on you,” Robert says, tilting his head towards Cersei. Her mouth forms an even firmer line at his mention of her, her apparent amusement souring. “My wife insisted on being here.”

“Of course I did,” she says, casting a narrow eyed look at him, as Robert flops back down and gestures for Ned to do the same. “Someone has to speak for Joffrey. He was viciously attacked.”

“You want something to drink?” Robert asks, ignoring his wife to gesture with his thumb at the long, gilded bar that runs the length of the back of the office. Cersei’s combativeness is understandable, but Robert’s congenial attitude feels wholly out of place to Ned, who is weighed down by the gravity of the situation. “I’ve got a full bar.”

Ned shakes his head, though he notices that both Robert and Cersei have glasses full and at the ready. “No, thank you.”

“Coffee if that’s your poison this early. I’d even waste a shot of good whiskey in your cup of Joe if that would make you feel better about indulging.”

“Trying to cut back.”

“Your loss,” Robert says with a slap of his hands against the lacquered surface of his desk. “Let’s get right to it then. End this so we can all go home.”

It’s a little early to call it a day, especially if Robert’s company is experiencing financial difficulties, but Ned isn’t about to suggest a full work day. Cersei’s presence feels like a storm cloud ready to burst, as if she is unlikely to be persuaded by much of anything, but Ned takes some heart at his friend’s words. Things have been said between them that Ned won’t forget, a divide has developed for the first time in their friendship, but if there was ever a time to overcome that, it is now.

Ned clasps his hands before him and leans into his elbows, slumping slightly forward. “That’s exactly what I’d like.”

Cersei is the first to grab for her drink. “I’m sure it is, but I don’t think we’re going to agree how it should end, Ned.” She says his name so precisely, it sounds like a profanity.

She watches him over the crystal rim of her glass, head cocked, as he clears his throat. “Let’s at least try. I think this is between Jon and Joff, and it should stay that way. No lawyers. No police.”

“I’ve said as much,” Robert says, shifting his weight in his chair to lean further away from his wife. “That’s the way we would have handled things in the day. We weren’t angels, were we, Ned?”

Ned forces himself to smile, though the muscles in his mouth spasm at the effort. Nothing escapes Cersei. She hums, placing her glass back on the corner of Robert’s desk with a gentle clink.

“It can limit further embarrassment for both of them if we handle this privately.”

Robert points a meaty finger at Ned. “I told Joffrey he’d look like a fool if he went through with this.”

Cersei twists in her chair to stare at Robert, tongue touching the edge of her teeth as she regards him for a long, cool second. “Joffrey has nothing to be embarrassed about.”

“I don’t know. He got an awfully good beating. How does Jon look?” Robert asks with a broad smile.

This is funny to him, Ned realizes. It’s not just an act he’s putting on to smooth over an awkward moment between them all. The whole thing is a joke to him, when Jon’s future is at stake.

Ned glances down at his hands, thinking of the way Jon held his gingerly at dinner, while explaining to the children what a terrible mistake he had made. Jon’s sorry for the trouble he’s caused, but he’s not _that_ sorry. Cat said he wasn’t properly contrite, and Ned sees it now. He looks like someone carrying around a secret—jumpy and quiet all at once. Neither of them want to admit it, but Ned thinks he knows what’s going on.

 _He was being disrespectful_.

Not disrespectful to Sansa. It’s the only thing that makes sense. Which means Sansa confided in Jon before confiding in her father.

Sansa said Joff had his hand on her, when Jon threw the first punch. That wouldn’t have looked good to someone who knew how Joff treated Sansa. Ned can better understand what drove his boy to act like he did. Cat’s fire was put out by Sansa’s revelation as well, though she’s still unhappy with the difficulty that has resulted.

“Not a scratch on him is there?” Robert laughs.

“You men and your bullshit machismo,” Cersei says, her stilettoed foot beginning to bounce with an intensity that causes the hem of her skirt to rise higher over her bare knee. “He isn’t some delinquent who gets in fights. He’s better than that.”

Robert rolls his eyes, his thoughts no doubt mirroring Ned’s. Ned grew up knowing how to fight. Robert did too. Robert was particularly good at it. Even horsing around with his fraternity brothers, Robert could level you with one solid hit. There’s a reason they called him The Hammer. Joff is no ninety pound weakling, but apparently his specialty is hitting those who won’t hit back.

“He has a black eye,” Cersei says, recrossing one leg over the other, her back ramrod straight. “Would you have me ignore that?”

“Yes, I would,” Robert says. “This is all a lot of fuss over nothing. He’s not as pretty as he was a week ago, but I’m completely unbothered by that fact. You should be too. Builds character.”

Cersei glances at her drink, as if considering chucking it at her husband. “You’re hardly helping.”

He isn’t. The lack of respect between the two of them is astounding. Whatever brought them together wore thin very quickly. What’s left is toxic. The kind of toxicity that could influence Jon’s chances of escaping prosecution, which makes it Ned’s problem and not just theirs. Robert and Cersei not being on the same page could be good, could be bad. Robert might win the field out of sheer determination, but it’s just as likely that Cersei will dig her heels in and refuse to listen to reason to spite her husband. And of course, Joffrey isn’t fifteen. He’s perfectly capable of ignoring both his mother and stepfather. He doesn’t seem like the type to eagerly accept advice of any kind.

“Joffrey could have lost his eyesight,” she continues. “He has a tooth that’s loose. He might need surgery on his nose.”

Jon said he wasn’t sure what kind of condition Joff was in. He doesn’t remember too much until they were leaving the club. Even the cab ride is kind of a blur. His counselor called it blackout violence. It was after hearing that label that Ned finally brought himself to ask if Jon had his meds in order.

“If Joffrey has medical bills, Jon will pay for it. It’s the least he can do to rectify this,” Ned offers.

“The _very_ least,” Cersei says, finally reaching for her glass.

“Nothing on that boy is smarting except his pride. An icepack for his shiner hardly requires monetary compensation.”

“The offer stands.”

“That’s good of you, Ned, but I think you can see the way the wind blows around here. My wife and her son have informed me that pursuing legal recourse is their shared desire,” Robert says, spreading his hands. “You see how it is.”

“I understand a mother being upset over something like this, and Jon shouldn’t have hit your son, but young men sometimes solve things with their fists.”

“What exactly were they _solving_? My son has never had anything to do with yours,” Cersei says, and it’s evident by the way she sneers at him that she’s rather proud of that fact, as if there’s something distasteful about Jon.

“Jon says Joffrey was disrespectful.”

“Disrespectful?” Robert says, scratching underneath his chin, where his starched collar digs into his ruddy neck. “Joff conveniently left that detail out. He made it out as if he was sucker punched. Completely blameless. It sounds as if we’ve heard rather different accounts of that night.”

Cersei huffs. “That’s because Jon Snow is a liar.”

“None of us were there,” Ned says, leaning forward. “No doubt there was bad judgment at work all around. I suggest we leave it at that, get both our boys out of the papers by avoiding the courtroom. I can have Jon apologize if that would help.”

Jon won’t want to do it. Ned doesn’t want him to have to do it. Joff doesn’t deserve an apology. But at some point, when your family is at stake, you have to set aside your pride. Ned knows how it would affect the family if they were put through a trial. Jon probably understands that as well. Ned could work upon the boy’s sense of devotion to family and convince him of the necessity of an apology if that’s what Joff demands.

“I doubt he knows how. Your son is an animal. They put down dogs when they act like that,” she says, tip-tapping the nails on her right hand against the arm of her chair.

Ned can feel the color rising in his face. Where does she get off talking about Jon that way? If she wasn’t a woman, he would tell her where to go.

“Cersei,” Robert says, an edge creeping into his voice for the first time. “Ned’s right. It’s hardly the first time a couple of young men with some beers in them have gotten into a scrape over a girl.”

Ned pulls back into the barrel back of his chair. Some of the blogs have run with the idea that Jon and Joff’s fight revolved around Sansa, a woman scorned, tossed aside for her friend, and a big brother’s angry vengeance. Joff may have encouraged this version of events and elaborated upon it for Cersei and Robert’s benefit. He could even be feeding that story to the blogs. There’s a kernel of truth, which makes it believable, while still being better for Joff’s reputation than big brother bashes in Lannister brat’s face for hitting his sister.

“She’s not worth fighting over,” Cersei says, an ugly smile curling over her face.

Ned’s discussion of Saturday night’s events with Sansa was deeply upsetting but illuminating. It gave him the necessary information to turn the tables here. Cersei’s a mother, but she’s also a woman. Joff’s violence against Sansa won’t inspire much in the way of a defense of her son, however much she loves him. She should also understand how damning this will be. Once the media has the story, it won’t be Jon in the hot seat, it will be Joff. She’ll want to protect him, as Ned wants to protect Jon.

“If you’re talking about my daughter,” he begins, only to be interrupted by her clipped, “I am.”

“Then you should refrain from doing so. If charges are brought against my son, more than just the details of this fight will come out.”

“Oh, I’m counting on that,” Cersei says.

“We’d be forced to expose that your son hit my daughter.” It looks as if he’s finally gotten through to her. Her hands slide back along the arms of the chair until they knit together over her stomach and her chest inhales with a breath that thins her nostrils. Perhaps she’s suspected it before. Perhaps Joff is overly rough with his sister or was something of a bully in school. “What do you think they’ll say about him in the press then? The court of public opinion will go against him. No one likes a woman abuser.”

“What’s this?” Robert asks, his face turning a shade darker than his usual high color from the burst capillaries over his cheeks and nose, a hallmark of alcoholism.

“While they were dating, Joff hit Sansa.”

“Now you’re taking things too far, Ned. I thought we could be civilized about this.”

Ned doesn’t allow Robert’s obvious anger at the accusation to stop him from pressing the issue. “I’m trying to stop things from going any further. You should as well. They’ll wonder where he learned that kind of behavior.”

Someone failed Joff to make him think this type of behavior is acceptable. Robert bears as much of the blame as Jaime Lannister—he’s been in the boy’s life long enough. Men should set an example for their sons, but Robert can’t be respectful of his wife for five minutes. The boy has seen it firsthand. If Robert doesn’t like the outcome, he should take a good hard look at himself.

Cersei shakes her head, eyes glassy, as if in a daze, and Ned finds himself feeling less angry and more sorry for her even as she denies the truth in a voice half its normal volume. “That can’t be true.”

Sympathy softens his voice when he assures her, “It is, Cersei, and I’m sorry to be the one to tell you.” Ned doesn’t know what he would do if he’d found out something like this about one of his boys. It would gut him. Leave him questioning himself as a parent and a man.

“Given the circumstances, I urge you to reconsider charges against Jon. Speak with Joffrey. Hopefully lessons will be learned on both sides.”

“My son would never do that,” she says, as she stands, hands balled at her sides. “No one would ever believe that he would.”

There’s no real force behind her words, and something about it makes Ned wish himself long gone. He doesn’t want to watch her realize what kind of son has been raised under her own roof.

“You leaving?” Robert asks, reaching for his glass.

“I think I better. Everyone needs time to think. Cool off.”

“Just one thing to chew on then.” Robert stops to take a swallow. “I don’t like to interfere with a man’s family and I always thought your eldest was a sweet girl, but I’ve told you there are rumors. Cersei’s right. No one would believe her. You should go home and think about that, Ned.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to write a one-shot, but it was so bad. Blah. Anyway, Jon's chapter is up next and hopefully that will fill your Jon x Sansa needs.


	36. Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon doesn't know what he was expecting Sansa's room to look like, but it wasn't this.

Chapter Thirty-Five: Jon

When Sansa opens her bedroom door and leans against the door, Jon freezes up. He doesn’t know what he has been expecting, when she invited him up, but it wasn’t this. He hasn’t been inside Sansa’s room since she shared with Arya—an awkward arrangement with the seven year age gap, which their mother hoped would increase affection rather than diminish it. Back then Sansa’s side was all pink bows and stuffed animals piled so high it didn’t look like there was any room to sleep. Jon remembers the yellow vinyl line down the middle of the room that her little sister was not allowed to cross; he spent all his time on Arya’s side. That was years ago before Sansa moved to the room opposite her father’s office, the need for teen privacy having won out over Catelyn’s grand plan. Still a first for Jon though.

This room, which Jon has never had access to, is a woman’s room. Everything is ice blue and creamy white with not a touch of pink in sight. Jon probably would have lost his nerve if the place was still piled high with stuffed animals. It would have reminded him too much of the past everyone expects to inform what they are to each other now.

Looking over her shoulder at the room lit only by a fireplace, the crystal chandelier overhead turned off, he’s filled with a different kind of uncertainty. This isn’t the kind of place he could ever afford to give her. Everything about this room is as elegant as anything Catelyn Stark would pick out—complete with a vase of towering flowers, the crowning touch to any room Catelyn decorates. Meanwhile, Sansa’s been hanging out in the basement with him.

More like making out whenever they can snag some temporary privacy. Mostly in the middle of the night. Sleep has been his nemesis since he left the service. Nightmares make him want to stretch his waking hours way past what’s normal, but exhaustion triggers episodes. A rather unpleasant catch-22. Since their first kiss, he doesn’t need sleep. Just Sansa. More and more of her.

Creative solutions for where they can find a moment are the brainchild of attraction’s hyper focus. The back of Ned’s limo, her crowded office after a brief tour of the magazine’s offices and a well timed lunch break for her friend Mya, the back row of that nearly empty movie theater she dragged him to in New Jersey at ten in the morning, even an elevator ride here at home is good for a kiss and increasingly desperate fumbling.

Never her room though. No one is really welcome here except maybe Jeyne. It’s Sansa’s sanctuary.

Sansa grabs his hand. “Hey,” she says all soft and inviting. “Coming in, birthday boy?”

“It’s not my birthday yet.”

“Close enough. Only an hour left before you’re officially an old man,” she says, tugging him through the doorway.

“Old man, huh?”

She might be serious. Did he think twenty-eight was ancient at her age?

“Don’t worry. I’ll care for you in your senility.” That’s one of the better offers he’s gotten lately. Certainly more appealing than Theon’s offer to find him birthday ass if he promised not to knock anyone out again. “As long as you keep your looks.”

“Watch it,” he says, looping his free arm around her middle and hauling her back into his chest.

She’s a little too bubbly. Nervousness probably jitters right under her twitching shoulders and bright chatter. It cost her something to tell him what she wanted tonight. She’s brave but shy in certain regards.

Touching her is better than any anti-anxiety med they’ve tried him out on at the VA. It’s an immediate release, when she sags into him with a sigh. Like the air rushing out of an unknotted balloon. It doesn’t last long enough though. He barely has time to kiss the crown of her head before she shimmies out his grip. She’s blinking too fast and her chest rises and falls visibly beneath her robe, when she stretches their arms out between them with fingers knit together. Her lips part, her tongue skims along the edge of her teeth. She's a bundle of nerves. Hopefully anticipation too, otherwise Jon won't let this night they've planned happen.

“I thought we could look at the snow from the balcony. You know, it could be romantic.”

“Outside?”

“Or just through the door.”

“Sure.”

It won’t be the first time he’s enjoyed a view with Sansa. Back in college, when neither of them had much use for the other, he spent more than one evening at the lake sitting on the dock, beer in hand, watching the sun go down with her. There was no romantic agenda—that was the furthest thing from his mind—but he liked the time to think. Sometimes she sang along to pop songs with her earbuds in. Not his kind of music. Still pretty. He thought about it on occasion, when he was lonely in Afghanistan.

“You want me to take my shoes off?” he asks, looking down at his Chucks, even as she pulls him over the fluffy white rug that extends almost to the edge of her room.

It looks like a rug you’re not supposed to walk on with dirty sneakers, but everything about the way he’s dressed seems wrong. The ambiance she’s got going on here couldn’t be achieved in his room. Which is probably why she suggested via a text with a bunch of emoticons he didn’t know how to interpret that he come up.

It’s not just the room. She’s placed herself in this scene with some obvious care. She’s not wearing the type of pjs she comes down to breakfast in. What Jon can see under the untied robe is a short little one piece thing, baby blue, and edged in lace. If she took that robe off, she’d have about as much on as she did this past summer in Michigan, when they sat on the shoreline eating popsicles with the family and he tried very hard not to stare at her in her blue and white polka dot swimsuit.

Was he supposed to come similarly attired? Is there a male equivalent? His flannel pants would have required quick thinking if anyone caught him on his way to her room dressed for bed. Then again, no one would ever think to find him here. Street clothes wouldn’t have made the scenario less questionable should Ned have decided to come up to his office and found Jon outside Sansa’s room, counting to ten in his head before he scratched at her door.

Sansa is the one who suggested they sneak around. Except, she framed it in a way that made it sound like a wise choice rather than an illicit one.

Catelyn was less than pleased about what Jon did at the Night’s Watch. The negative press and the bad example it set for the kids fixed her mouth in a hard line anytime he walked into a room. Then she found out about Joffrey. They'd all probably like to pop Joffrey in the mouth again if given a chance. Even so, Sansa thinks this isn’t the time to tell her parents about them.

_We’ll wait until this business blows over, and then we’ll tell them about us._

Jon’s unconvinced it will blow over. He’s not wholly certain Sansa believes it either. He suspects she’s putting on a bit of a show, pretending everything is going to be fine, when she knows life rarely issues free passes. Or maybe she’s just caught up in the same buzz that’s been coloring Jon’s every decision since she first kissed him.

After the reporter called and asked her mother a lot of uncomfortable questions about the fight at the Night’s Watch, he spent most of the day hiding out in the basement. It gave him time to think about what a dumb move hitting Joff was. And how the press would seize upon this business between him and Sansa like sharks with blood in the water. It would probably be safer to try to go back to the way things were before the kiss.

All solid reasons to back off, but he didn’t argue with Sansa, when she crept down the stairs at one in the morning, sat cross-legged on his bed, and suggested that they keep their relationship a secret. Ned and Cat were probably upstairs arguing about what to do with him, but he was too caught up in the fact that she was operating on the assumption that they were in a relationship. Add to that the press of her thigh against his own and he wasn’t going to voice any of concerns about springing the news on her parents after the fact. When he’d woken up that morning, a part of him had been convinced Sansa would regret what happened between them. When she immediately started talking about _us_ , he would have agreed to anything. Hell, he would have done anything to kiss her again.

He’s wanted her for months, thought about her to the point of distraction, and now every nerve ending rewards him with that electric pulse any time she touches him. It’s hard to care about anything else.

“Whatever makes you comfortable,” she says, but she doesn’t stop leading him towards her bathroom right over her pristine rug.

A pair of French doors lead out to the iron railing balcony off her bathroom, following the same arrangement as her parents’ room one floor below. There’s something unexpectedly intimate about crossing the threshold. There shouldn’t be anything sexy about a bathroom. There's nothing titillating about his. Somehow hers manages to be. This is where she slips off her clothes and soaks in a giant tub up to her neck in bubbles.

“Why do people make such a fuss about snowstorms?” she asks, stopping before the door, the fingertips of her left hand touching the pane of glass.

“Power outages, car accidents, general inconvenience.”

“Okay, Commander Gloomy. You don’t really feel that way, do you?”

“No.” As the blizzard sunk the city in snow and Jon watched from the living room window, all he could think about was how much Sansa would like it. “Michigan wouldn’t be my favorite place if I did. But I also don’t have a job I need to be at.”

Without a job, he couldn’t even afford an apartment the size of this bathroom. The marble alone would cost a fortune. He absolutely can’t afford her. Even healthy he’s not going to make this kind of money. He’s not a Stark or a Lannister or a fucking Baratheon.

Joffrey could have given her a bathroom like this and a big elegant bedroom. Not much else though.

“It's so pretty and peaceful.”

It would be even more peaceful if they were staring out on a Michigan snow. But they're not.

“Let’s go out,” she says, her hand toying with the brass knob.

He cocks his head to the side waiting to see if she's merely teasing. “No?”

“Why not?” she asks, looking up at him in the dark of the room.

Her eyes glint with an eagerness that he feels too, but not for going outside in a t-shirt.

“It’s freezing out and you’re…” he says, his gaze shifting to the slope of her breasts in the soft looking knit she’s wearing. And those long bare legs, every inch of pale skin begging to be touched. Whatever it is she’s wearing probably doesn’t even qualify as shorts, and he’s really trying not to jump all over her.

“I’m what, Jon?” she asks with a little smile, as she turns into him.

With hooded eyes, he watches her hand skate over his arm to the edge of the sleeve of his t-shirt. One short, glossy pink nail draws figures against the skin. It feels like she might be spelling something out or just teasing him with each whispery flick of her nail, making the hair on his arms prickle.

“You going to tell me?” she asks, spanning his leg with hers.

One of those bare feet that has no business outside perches atop his sneaker, as her knee bumps his, insinuating itself between his legs. His heart pounds, his hands flex, and he has to swallow to wet his dry mouth, as his hands find her hips. He brings her firmly against his thigh, all her soft places depressing against his chest, his hip, his thigh.

“God, you’re soft,” he says, thumbs curving over the round of her hips.

“Cashmere.”

“Not what I meant. Although I like it,” he says, inclining his head to nudge the neck of her robe away with his nose. It exposes that fine bone at her neck he'd like to lick all the way to the thin strap of her pajamas. The robe slips free of her shoulders, and she lets it fall to the floor with a shrug. “I like this too,” he says, tracing the lacy arch of her pajama bottom.

Ygritte always just got naked. He thought that was awesome. Sansa takes a different tact. Different and equally lovely.

Hands framing his face with fingertips cool from the window, she pulls him in until their noses touch and she’s all wide eyes and inviting mouth. “I hoped you'd like it.”

The thought of her planning what to wear, thinking about what he might like is beyond sexy. It's gratifying to know he wasn't the only one thinking about this night well in advance.

He threads his fingers in the thick hair at the back of her head, letting his eyes close, as his mouth finds hers. Familiarity with the taste of her, the give of her lips, and the gentle stroke of her tongue against his has only made this better. If anything, it’s almost too good. With each kiss there’s less nose bumping and clicking of teeth, but more need for spine tightening restraint. Her hands have been sneaking under his shirt for weeks, and he still sucks in a breath as the flat of her hand covers the jumpy muscles in his abdomen.

She murmurs his name against his neck, and there’s the tug low in his belly. The one that makes him feel like he can never have her close enough. He wraps an arm around her back and hitches her leg up over his hip. It throws her slightly off balance, but that only means he has to hold her tighter. Even through his denim he can feel how hot she is. The thirst for more, deeper, closer intensifies with every whimper he draws from her, kissing his way along her jaw to the spot she likes right below her ear. She squirms against him, twisting against his thigh until he palms her ass and rocks her into him in time with her quick little pants.

“Good?” he asks, taking her earlobe between his teeth.

“God, yes.”

Little blasphemer, he thinks with a grin.

Arching against him, she fumbles with the fly of his jeans. Just the bumping of those fingers trapped between their bodies makes his heart pound in his ears. Even in the relative privacy of his room, the only clothing removed has been his t-shirt. Since this began, it’s been a lot of very high school over the clothes action. Keeping his clothes on helped him keep his cool. Somewhat. Because if he would have pushed up one of her skirts and hooked a finger in her panties before tonight, he would have begged to lick her, fuck her, anything to make her feel good.

It’s a long time coming after a year of x-rated fantasies he worked overtime not to indulge, but he can’t mess this up. He never really thought about forever with a girl before, but this is different. He’s different; so is she. Sansa’s been dreaming of white picket fences, a yappy dog, 2.5 kids, and a Ken doll husband since she was a kid herself. She ought to have what she wants, and while he’s hardly molded plastic, he’s piecing himself back together as best he can. Because she wouldn’t have kissed him if she didn’t imagine him carrying out the trash and changing light bulbs.

He kisses the corner of her proud smirk, when she runs her hand over the front of him. What she doesn’t know is that he’s been in a state of semi arousal all damn day.

“Did you bring a condom?”

“Yeah.”

Five of them. Which seemed like overkill. Presumptuous too. So he stuffed all but one in the drawer of his bedside table before heading up to her room. He got all the way to the first floor and jogged back down the stairs to grab them again. First adding two more to his pocket. Then another two. Whatever. He’s prepared for whatever she has in mind. Like a good boy scout.

He’s only got one reservation left and keeping that in mind with her palming the ridge of his erection through his tight jeans is no mean feat.

People are going to react to them being a couple. There’s no mystical good timing that can change that. By keeping it a secret, they’re only delaying the inevitable. Despite Sansa’s cheerful assertions of how happy they’ll be for them, Jon knows how the family will respond. He’s pictured Ned throttling him and then tossing him out on the street, when he finally finds out. Arya will be furious. The boys will be confused. He doesn't even want to imagine Catelyn's reaction. Jon feels guilty about this lie by omission. But not guilty enough to stop.

And no, he can’t give her the life she’s accustomed to, but he knows how to treat to her. He didn't have a father, but he's had the best role model in that regard.

The only thing holding him back is her need to please. She wanted it to be tonight. _On your birthday_ , she said with more untranslatable emojis.

Resting his brow against hers, he breathes in, letting his chest expand with purposeful slowness—a counselor approved action to clear his head. It doesn’t much work, since all he can smell is the sweet warmth of her skin and shampoo.

“Jon?”

“Yeah. Sorry,” he says with a thick swallow. His intention is not to freak her out. He only wants to offer her an out if she needs one. “Just because it’s my birthday, I don’t want you to feel like…”

“It’s not your birthday yet,” she says, popping the button on his jeans.

He grabs her wrist, stopping her progress. “It's almost my birthday.”

“ _Almost_ ,” she says, plucking at the elastic of his boxer briefs with an outstretched finger. “But until midnight, this has nothing to do with your birthday.”

He brushes his thumb over the ridge of tendons in her wrist. “What’s it about?”

“Us.” It’s dark, but he can see the flush that spreads over her face.

“You want to?” She nods, and her pupils are fat and glossy, as she shifts against his thigh. “Me too.”

He hoists her up, because sex in the bathroom is not in the operational plan. She’s got a bathroom counter a mile wide and a great big mirror that could be a real turn on. But it’s been too long since Jon had sex. He doesn’t trust himself not to make a mess of this without the benefits of a bed. She deserves a bed.

“I’m going to need more than an hour,” he says, as she wraps those long legs around his waist and he carries her the few feet from her bathroom to her bed. “Probably end up being birthday sex anyway.”

She grins back at him, her eyetooth dimpling her lip before she buries her face in his neck.

He almost trips over the rug before he settles on the edge of the bed. It makes him wish for a light. Or two or three. Not only for maneuverability: seeing everything would be very sexy. But there’s definitely something to the warm orange light of the fire playing off her breasts, when she kneels over him and wiggles her shoulders until the straps of her pajamas fall away.

He’s definitely staring, when her fingers bunch in the sides of his shirt and she commands rather firmly, “Off.”

In one swift motion he grabs the back of his shirt and pulls it over his head, tossing it off to the side, so he can lean back in. He doesn’t want to stare. He wants to touch. He kisses at her pulse, where it thrums as he cups her breast, testing the weight of her. They’re soft, downy like a peach, and fit perfectly in his hand. Fucking perfect, he thinks tracing one rosy nipple.

“You’re gorgeous,” he says, lips replacing fingers.

By the time he’s left one pebbled and glistening with saliva, she’s pulling hard at his hair and her nails have scratched a path up his back. Jon feels a bit like he’s losing his mind, as he takes the other in his mouth and thrusts up against her with too much thick fabric between them. He wants to feel her hot and wet against him. Wants to be inside of her. The thought of it has his breath coming ragged and his fingers digging into the give of her ass.

Then her hand is at his fly again, knuckles brushing against the flat of his stomach, and he has to lift her up and off, so this doesn’t end before he’s managed to get his jeans off. To remove his sneakers and jeans as quickly as possible results in something of an unmanly struggle, which ends with him hopping on one foot, while she watches with her legs pulled up to her chest and a finger caught between her teeth.

“Enjoying the view?” he asks, trying to pull a narrow leg over his heel.

Ygritte would have told him he looked ridiculous—and he does—but there’s an almost dreamy quality to Sansa’s stare that makes him want to laugh.

“Yes, actually,” she says, scooting back to the middle of her bed.

Her toes, curling in a point, are the same pink as her fingernails. There’s not one part of her he doesn’t find sexy as hell, pink toes included.

“Not so bad for an old man?” he asks with a grunt, as he finally kicks free of the second leg.

“Are you fishing for compliments, Jon?”

He reaches for one delicate ankle, and she extends her leg as much as he pulls it down. “Absolutely. If I can get one.”

“You wouldn’t have so much trouble getting those jeans off if you bought them a size larger.”

“That’s not a compliment.”

“No, but it would save us some time next time,” she says.

The promise of next time is way better than a compliment, so he vows to be better prepared to disrobe next time.

That's not the only preparation needed. Condoms. He retrieves one from the back pocket of his discarded jeans and tosses the gold foil packet on the bed next to where the weight of her body dips the mattress down.

“Might save your dignity too,” she says, as her extended leg turns out, opening up a tempting view of inner thigh.

He kisses the inside slope of her ankle. “Too late.”

It’s a kiss that’s supposed to trail up her curved calf and rounded thigh, but she stops him, planting her foot squarely on his chest. “Boxers too.” She pulls the finger from her mouth to point. “While you’re at it,” she adds at half her usual volume.

It feels rather like a strip show, though there’s no art to the way Jon yanks his shorts off and then stands there with her eyes fixed on him. Everything about her pretzeled posture speaks of insecurity, but his standing there for her appraisal puts him in her power. He's fine with that. He would awkwardly stand here all night if it made her more comfortable. But only a few seconds tick by, noted by the porcelain clock over the mantel, before her eyes flick back up to meet his gaze. She holds it, as she leans back and her hips rise off the bed.

He knew she wasn’t wearing panties—could feel it, when his hand gripped her ass—but, when she shucks off her pajamas and she's naked before him, it's something else entirely. His imagination is not this good. Doesn’t have to be anymore.

He commits the vision of her—partially curled in on herself, one arm over her breasts and red hair fanning out around her head—to memory, as he crawls over her. Bracing himself on one forearm, he follows the dip of her waist with his hand, as pale as all the rest of her. This is why he shaved after dinner. He learned his lesson after giving her a red chin one night.

“You’re the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“You keep saying that,” she says, wrapping a curl behind his ear around her finger.

“’s true. Lots of other things too.”

“Tell me later,” she says, tugging him down for a kiss.

And he will, but right now every thought blinks out as her body meets his with nothing between them. “Christ,” he whispers, rubbing himself against her. It’s obscene how good it feels. He wants her to feel just as good. Better.

He circles her hip bone with his index finger. “Can I touch you?”

Her answer is the slight parting of her legs.

He says it again, “ _Christ_ ,” as her feet tangle with his and she pulls his head back down to her breast.

Getting his jeans off was anything but smooth, but he’s better at this with his hands and mouth on her, pulling her apart. He’s even halfway successful at blocking out the hot latch of her mouth on his neck and her hand wrapped around his dick, stroking up and over the tip of him. Successful enough that he can focus on the slick heat of her and not fall back on the bed, while she works him to orgasm.

She’s always so controlled and careful. Not now, as he finds the right pressure that makes the rhythm of her hand falter.

“We have to be quiet,” she says on a sharp inhale prompted by the drag of his teeth over a peaked nipple.

Or maybe it’s his blunt finger sliding inside her.

Her warning might be as much a reminder to herself as him, for as loud as she groans as her back arches off the bed and her heel slips, losing purchase against the comforter.

“Trying, honey,” he promises. Only because his life probably depends on it.

Making her writhe and pant with two fingers curled inside her and his thumb drawing wet circles over her clit moves to the top of Jon’s favorite things. Until she starts to whisper against his ear, hot and breathy, “Please.”

“Tell me,” he urges.

She blindly pats her hand beside them and comes up with the condom pinched between her fingers. “Here.”

Jon rolls onto his back, snagging the condom from her. It occurs to him as he tears into it that you’re not supposed to do it with your teeth, but it escapes his urgency unscathed. “Will you get on top?” he asks, pinching the tip of it as he rolls it down over himself.

She hums in the positive and moves to straddle his thighs. He lies there for a moment, her looking down at him with her hands cupping her breasts, him twitching against the dampness of her inner thigh. His hands settle on her thighs and he draws them up slowly towards her apex.

She bends down for a kiss. Everything over the past few minutes has been increasingly frantic, but not this kiss. Time stretches out like spun sugar for this kiss. It’s slow and sweet. Manages to be that way even when her arm slides between them to bring the head of him between her folds, where the hot slickness of her sends a jolt to his spine.

She rocks over him, shallow movements that draw him in deeper a fraction at a time, making his fingers tauten against her flesh and his mind count each soft puff of her breath against his lips. By the time he’s buried inside of her, the tension in his gut is coiled so tight, he can barely ask, “Okay?”

“S’good,” she says with a roll of her hips that brings their pelvises together in a long rub.

He grits his teeth. Theon once said he sang “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” in his head to keep from getting off too soon. Jon prefers the alphabet—backwards.

He doesn’t get past Q before he tells her, “Fuck, you feel amazing.”

He wants to thrust up into her, wants to toss her on her back and lick between her thighs to see how good she tastes, wants to sit her upright over him and watch himself disappear inside of her, while her breasts bounce. But he lets her set the pace, an agonizingly slow one, and holds her as close to his chest as she seems to want. She clings to him—the fingers of one hand scratching at the base of his scalp, the other using his shoulder for leverage—and he lets his hands wander, learning the feel of her the way he couldn’t before.

And when her soft keening turns into a deeper sound of frustration, he touches her, where she’s slippery with arousal. With each sweep, his finger brushes where they’re joined, until her rocking stutters to a stop and her nails bite into him. Her fine brows knit together, her mouth goes slack, and good God she comes hard around him.

Watching the last shuddering grip of her orgasm play on her face, he lets himself give in to the need to _move_ , thrusting into her as he spouts the kind of compliments he never expected to pay her. Everything focuses in on that one spot, and with the pressure building to the point of inevitability, he gathers her hair in his fist to get at her mouth for a sloppy kiss. It’s an intense burst that curls his toes and makes his eyes screw shut. A slightly out of body experience or the feeling of being more than just one body, as he pulses inside the condom.

Then blissful numbness.

Contented exhaustion weighs him down into the mattress as much as the pressure of her body over his with her head cradled on his chest. He breathes out into her dampened hair, vaguely aware of the stroke of her hand against his side.

Clarity drifts down on him.

There’s a thin sheen of sweat on both of them, and despite the flickering fire, he can feel goose bumps along her arms, as he maps her body in lazy exploration. They could fall asleep like this with him slipping out of her, but that wouldn't be the best idea.

“I’ve got to get rid of this thing,” he says, reaching between them to hold on to the condom as he pulls out.

His legs swing over the side of the bed, as he knots off and then tosses the condom in the painted trash bin beside her bedside table. With his back turned, he can hear her rearranging herself on the bed, can picture her too. He runs his hands through his hair, stretches both arms over his head, and then flops back alongside her. He’s going to sleep better than he has in ages. Shame they’ll need to set an alarm, so he can sneak back down before anyone else is awake.

“Come here,” he says, lifting up an arm to welcome her back into his embrace, where she fits with such ease.

She hums, tucking herself in close.

“Hey,” he says, fingertips running lightly over the bumps in her spine. “Good?”

“Mmm...yes.” She runs the tip of her nose over him. The gesture makes him smile. “Happy. You?”

“I love you.” He says it quickly without giving himself a chance to over think it or talk himself out of confessing it.

She lifts her head to press a kiss to the underside of his chin. “I love you too.”

As easy as that. “I’ve been almost saying it for weeks.” He wishes he had now. “Thought it might be too much.”

“No, it’s perfect.”

She’s perfect, and he swears it’s not the hormones making him think that. He knows her too well for that.

“It’s the way it should be, right?” she asks, walking her fingers down him until she reaches his navel.

He twitches as if they didn’t just finish having sex. Really phenomenal sex, he thinks, gazing down at the long curve of her naked body.

“Yeah,” he agrees. When it came to girls and sex, it wasn’t always quite about being in love. Between them it can’t be anything less. “Almost called you all these ridiculous endearments too.”

“Like what?”

He shakes his head against the pillow, the whisper of the cotton the auditory accompaniment to his refusal to say.

“I’ll get you drunk, Jon Snow. You won’t be able to help yourself,” she says, punctuating her promise with a poke.

“Don't doubt it.” It won’t even take a stiff drink. Just more of those sweet _pleases_. “You’re irresistible that way.”

“I don’t know. You resisted long enough.”

“Is that what I’ve been doing?”

She toes his leg, over his ankle and down again. Naked footsies. “Well, being very gentlemanly at least. You could have had me on my birthday though. All those drinks in me,” she says, stretching against him like a cat. “I wanted you. Wanted to see what all those hours in the gym did for you.”

“Sansa.” 

“What?” she asks, all wide eyed faux innocence.

“Are you kidding?” he asks, reaching up to scrub his face. It's already getting rough with fresh growth. If he kisses down her the body the way he'd like to, he'll leave a mark. Of course, it is winter. None of that skin shows. “You can’t say things like that to me.”

“Why?”

“'cause it makes me really mad at myself.”

She laughs loudly and then slaps her hand over her mouth. It’s not just enthusiastic groaning that could wake her parents up.

“We could have been really good at this by now,” he whispers with a pat to her ass.

“It was already really good.”

Fucking fantastic.

He can feel her smile against his chest as she hides her face by rolling into him, muffling her words. “I don’t usually, um…”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t ever, you know, during sex.”

“I _don’t_ know,” he says, wrapping both arms around her. He doesn’t have the foggiest what she wants him to guess at so as to save her from having to say it. “Why don’t you tell me?”

“Come or whatever.”

His stomach bottoms out. A guy’s orgasm is a whole thing, impossible to miss. Still, as much as guys go on about girls being a mystery, he always thought that was pure laziness on their parts. He likes to think he knows when he is doing something right, let alone getting a girl off.

“Were you faking it?”

“Just now?” she asks, head popping up. She’s as red as a rose and just as lovely with her hair all fuzzed around her head. She gives a quick whip of her head. “I didn’t need to.”

“Oh.” Oh. Fuck. He rolls her over, caging her in with his arms. “You shouldn’t have told me that.”

“I thought you might like to know.”

He does. Good for the ego and all that, but he’ll congratulate himself later. “I do, but the thing is, you’re so pretty when you come.”

“Jon,” she says, covering her face with one hand.

“I’m going to want to see it again, and I’ve got four more condoms with me.”

“Four?” she asks, peeking through her fingers.

“Yep. Good thing too. We’ve got a lot of practicing to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh, so... there's that!
> 
> *runs away*
> 
> Ned's up next.


	37. Ned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Until Ned hears otherwise, it's nothing but gossip.

Chapter Thirty-Six: Ned

It’s not every morning Jon makes it to breakfast. More often than not he’s still in bed, while his younger siblings head off to school and Sansa leaves for her internship. It hasn’t always been that way. As a teenager, the boy was never lazy, and while Ned doesn’t like that a grown man can’t seem to get out of bed in the morning, he’s made allowances. After all, Ned knows what it’s like coming home from war, and he’s not sure what effect Jon’s medication has on his sleeping patterns.

Today there could be no allowances. As Cat was toasting bagels and slicing fruit, Ned knocked on Jon’s door and barked through it that he needed Jon up in time for breakfast. The discussion Ned needs to have with Jon can’t wait. It’s prompted by today’s news, which made its unwanted appearance in the early hours, when Cat unrolled the morning newspaper and dropped her mug on the kitchen tile with a loud pop. As early as they discovered it—Osha wasn’t yet upstairs with the boys, fighting with them over brushing their hair and teeth—they are still behind the eight ball with a bevy of phone calls to make. Ned has to put the lid on this malicious gossip as best he can.

 _You know how I worried about our children, when Jon came here. I didn’t worry far enough into the future, when something like this_ , Cat said, pointing at the paper with the sheared off handle of her mug, _could happen_.

_It’s gossip, Cat. Gossip._

It has to be gossip.

Cat sits stiff-backed through breakfast, food untouched on her plate, while she stares at Jon and Sansa across the table. Ned expects she’s taking note of everything that passes between the two of them to determine who has the right of it. He doesn’t want to believe one word of that article, but he finds himself watching them almost as closely as his wife. Sipping his coffee and taking an overabundance of care smearing his bagel with cream cheese, he wonders if there are signs he missed before. Odd details like Jon using his left hand to drink his orange juice, while his right stays tucked under the table. Or the way Sansa smiles to herself after every comment that passes between Jon and their siblings. When did she start laughing this much again?

They both look tired. Just last night, while Cat was brushing her teeth and Ned was setting out his razor and shaving cream for the next morning, Cat looked up at the ceiling and pointed with her index finger for him to do the same.

_Do you hear that?_

Yes, he heard what drew her attention: voices in the bathroom above them. One sounded like a male voice. The depth of the voice muffling whatever was being said.

_On the phone, I guess._

_What, speaker phone? In the bathroom?_

Ned didn’t know. Kids are strange about their electronics. He would happily chuck his in the Hudson if given the choice, but the kids can barely be parted from their gadgets.

Neither Jon nor Sansa is buried in their phones now. Having your phone at the table is against family rules, and they’re both rule followers. Which is why Ned knows this must be gossip, because even if he and Cat never thought to make a rule about it, it’s unthinkable that Jon and Sansa would ever entertain the idea.

Still. Even with breakfast over and Osha ushering a sticky fingered Rickon out of the dining room with his arms held out before him like a zombie, Ned can’t stop scrutinizing what’s right before him. Like the placement of Sansa and Jon’s chairs. They’re closer together than need be at a dining table long enough to seat more than eight. Closer than any of the other chairs. Close enough that Sansa brushes Jon’s side as she scoots hers back, chattering away with Bran. Sansa is oblivious to her mother’s fixed stare, while she gathers up her and her little brother’s empty plates.

As Sansa flits by with a quiet thank you to her mother for breakfast, Cat hovers in the doorway with her eyes glued to Jon. The rest of the family is dressed for the day, but Jon came to the table with rumpled hair and a fistful of poorly concealed yawns. He didn’t expect to be dragged out of bed, but then, Ned didn’t wake up expecting to have this conversation with him.

“Son,” Ned says, as Jon stands, ready to follow Sansa and Bran out of the dining room. “Stay put for a minute. I need to talk to you.”

Jon looks to Cat, where she stands with her hand on one hip and plate gripped in the other, and then back to his uncleared plate.

His wife wanted to confront Jon and Sansa together. Flipping the newspaper over on the kitchen counter, so the headline would no longer stare him in the face, while Cat swept ceramic shards into a dustbin, Ned suggested he should speak with Jon first. Alone.

_The boy’s my responsibility._

_And Sansa?_

Ned rolled up the paper and stuck it in his pocket, where it still waits, thickly ominous between him and the high back of the dining room chair. _We’ll deal with her if there’s anything to deal with. It’s just gossip until then. No reason to bring it to her attention._

_By the time she gets to her job, she’ll know, Ned._

Cat’s probably right, but Sansa will always be his little girl and he wants to shield her from what’s brewing outside their doorstep for as long as possible. That’s his job, and he shoulders some of the blame for this article. Jon made a mistake in hitting Joffrey. A big one that he may have to end up paying for. But if Ned wasn’t a public figure, there would be no media spotlight on any of them and none of his kids would figure in nasty speculation. When you devote yourself to public service, there is a price the family pays.

Cat takes three brisk steps back into the room and extends a hand. “Give it to me, Jon.”

“Thank you,” Jon says, as he crosses his utensils over the plate and hands it over.

Stacking Jon’s empty plate underneath her full one, she looks to Ned. “I’ll make sure none of the children run back in here before they head off.”

Cat always thinks of these things. She’s invaluable. The best mother a man could ask for.

Ned can’t have any interruptions. If this can be kept from the children, it would be for the best. He can’t begin to think how they would explain this kind of scandal to them. That’s yet another thing he’d need to rely on Cat for.

Ned can hear Jon swallow, as he takes his seat again and the hammer of Cat’s heels on the stairs melts away. The boy’s hands rub over the flannel pants he must have thrown on before coming up for breakfast, and he takes one more look towards the now empty doorway before speaking. “I’m going to jail, aren’t I?”

“I don’t know. That remains to be seen.”

Ned pulls the newspaper from his back pocket and smoothes it out until it’s flat against the shiny surface of the table. Rotating it to face Jon, he slides it across. “We have a different problem to deal with here.”

The headline—Stark Strumpet—boldly heralds an affair between his daughter and the man raised as her brother. A sordid story that has been set within the ever developing narrative of Jon and Joffrey’s altercation at the Night’s Watch complete with quotes from an unnamed source, who claims to have inside knowledge about the couple.

_"She wanted him for months. She knew it was sick, but she couldn’t help herself. She felt sorry for him. She’s like that. He probably knew that and played up his issues."_

Ned expects a member of the Baratheon and Lannister cabal fed the media this repulsive story. They went too far.

Jon grabs the paper and drags it to the edge of the table. Eyes darting over the type, his hand spreads to cover the article until most of it is blotted out. “What is this?”

“The morning’s garbage, I’m afraid.”

First the fight and now claims of sexual impropriety within his family. Sansa and Jon bear the brunt of the fallout, but Ned’s not untouched. Luwin will point out that the party is likely to have something to say about the constant tawdry gossip attached to his name. The professional repercussions are coming. His only concern is for his family, but eventually he will be made to worry about more than that.

Jon scrubs his mouth, and the rasp of his morning stubble is the only sound in the room for several long minutes. When he finally speaks, his voice is as rough as Ned’s was, when he snatched the paper from Cat’s trembling hands. “They can’t write that about her.”

“They can.”

“No,” Jon says, looking up and exhaling hard. “Something needs to be done to stop this.”

“I’m going to issue a request that my daughter’s privacy be respected, but it isn’t likely to do much good. It was hard enough getting the press to leave you all alone when you were children.” The commentary on Rickon’s behavior during campaigns and family photo ops is a constant source of grief for Cat. Each of the children has drawn some sort of unwanted criticism over the years, including Sansa. People thought it frivolous for a Senator’s daughter to pursue modeling, and they hounded Ned and Cat for it. They’ve never experienced anything like this, however. Not even when Jon came home under difficult circumstances, and Ned felt helpless to stop negative press from reaching his ears. “She’s of age.”

“If she sees that,” Jon says, pointing a finger at the paper.

Ned wouldn’t expect anything less than righteous anger from Jon over this headline. Jon would hardly be less touched by it than he and Cat are as Sansa’s parents, because he and Sansa are family in all the ways that count. That’s what makes the unnamed source’s claim so preposterous.

“It’s going to be very upsetting, but I don’t see how we can keep her from knowing about it.”

Ned will do everything he can to prevent its further spread beyond this article, but there’s a chance someone at the magazine will be tasteless enough to ask whether the rumor is true and the damage will be done. They don’t live in a bubble. They’re not insulated from things the way they are when they’re in Michigan among old friends and neighbors. If it wasn’t the dead of winter and if Congress was not in session, Ned would suggest they leave for Michigan immediately.

Jon shoves the paper away with the tips of his fingers. “No one wants to see the worst things they think about themselves in print.”

Everything about this article is confounding, including the implication that Sansa makes a habit of sleeping around. Strumpet, a nasty insult disguised as a cute joke. But Ned wouldn’t have imagined Sansa ever thought of herself in those terms.

Frowning, Ned considers Jon’s jerky fidgeting. Quick inhalations and long exhalations leverage Jon’s chest in uneven measure. Bright color floods his cheeks. His brows furrow deeply enough to bring out the lines on a face that shouldn’t yet have them. He’s not just angry about the headline: there’s something else going on. Jon knows something Ned does not. Not for the first time of late. At some point Sansa and Jon went from the most distant members of their family to confidants. It wouldn’t be a bad thing, except from the looks of it, she’s confiding in someone that can’t fully handle the burden.

“Are you taking your medication, Jon?”

Ned only asked once before—after the fight—and Jon’s huffed answer, “Yes,” communicates his annoyance that Ned has asked again. He’s an adult and Ned prefers to treat him as such, but at a certain point, the greater good of the family has to be taken into consideration.

“You want to tell me what’s wrong then?”

Jon’s hand flexes and relaxes twice before forming a white knuckled fist atop the table. “It’s my fault.”

“Is it?”

Jon does Ned the courtesy of acknowledging the question by looking him in the eye, but he says nothing. All Jon gives him is a dead eyed stare. It’s a coping mechanism Ned became accustomed to after Jon came home. That blankness has always been disheartening, but it’s especially unnerving in this moment, when he’d rather Jon speak openly and allay his fears.

He doesn’t want to have to pull this from Jon bit by bit. Ned is no interrogator.

“Did you read beyond the headline?”

“No.”

Ned rubs the spot between his brows, where his head splitting headache began about an hour earlier. “You should.”

That would save Ned from having to say it out loud. Jon could see it for himself and express his disgust at the very suggestion. It would be the end of it, and Ned could head up to his office to make some strongly worded phone calls.

“No, sir. Reading that crap would be a violation.”

Ned understands the sentiment. Reading gossip about his daughter and son written to titillate made him physically ill. Acknowledging it is akin to giving credence to it, and having to question Jon is the worst kind of acknowledgement.

He can’t blame Jon for avoiding the gory details. Besides, it doesn’t take any great leap of intuition to work it all out. Jon’s picture is right there next to hers, to the right of the article, no reading required. If there’s any truth to the accusation, Jon might not even need pictures to guess at the new angle. Either Jon believes he’s to blame, because hitting Joffrey brought this bizarre attention Sansa’s way, or his culpability has a much more immediate cause.

“Son, before I speak to Luwin about this, I need you to be perfectly honest with me. If something had happened between you and Sansa, you’d have told me. Right?” Ned waits for the sputtering, the grimace, and cursing, but Jon just stares. The seconds tick by and there’s a corresponding pulse in Ned’s temple that signals a spike in his blood pressure. “They make it out as if there’s something going on between you two.”

Jon’s jaw works, his eyes dart away and back, and when Ned’s about to repeat the question, Jon answers. “There is.”

Ned pulls at the collar of his too tight shirt. The boy has misunderstood. “Something other than a…” How would you describe this friendliness between them if it isn’t quite familial? “Flirtation,” Ned settles on, though that catches in his throat too.

Jon nods. A sharp, sure nod. A yes. A silent affirmation of something _more_. Ned’s veins fill with ice.

“You’re not sleeping with my daughter. Under my own roof.”

“I’m in love with her.”

Ned’s hollowed out. Like a sock to the gut, the delayed jolt of pain makes it impossible to draw a breath. By the time he sucks one in, the muscles in his hands and legs are firing without cause, and it seems as if time is unraveling, while he waits for the rubber band to snap, springing them back to a moment ago, when his family was as it should be.

“Jesus Christ.” The two of them. Right here under their noses. Cat wasn’t the only one who failed to think of every possible consequence of bringing Jon into their home: Ned never thought to concern himself about this, when Luwin ushered a sad eyed little boy through their front door with nothing but a duffle bag to his name. He was such a kid that he slept with a ratty old stuffed wolf, for God’s sake. “Jesus Christ, son. You can’t be.”

“I am.”

Cat said their closeness made her uncomfortable. She was thrilled when Sansa’s internship took her out of the house. She wanted there to be more separation between them. Ned didn’t see it that way. He thought it was only natural that they became closer after they lost Robb. Natural and good, because they were clearly better together than apart.

That voice in Sansa’s bathroom when they all should have been asleep.

 _Oh_ , they’re together all right.

Jon nods at the newspaper on the table. “I didn’t want anything like this to happen.”

“What _did_ you want, damn it? She’s your sister.”

“No. She isn’t.” Every other part of Jon’s confession has been softly voiced. Not this. 

“Don’t play semantics,” Ned barks.

Jon’s head snaps as if Ned reached across the table to hit him. Ned was always able to discipline without yelling. There was never any need. His word was law. The boys respected him. Or so he thought.

“How long have you been lying to us?”

“I wanted to be honest from the start.”

“Now’s your chance, son. How long has this been going on?”

The article said months. Months. Playing them all for fools.

Jon rubs at the back of his neck, “I’m not comfortable with that question.”

Ned’s brows arch. “I’m not comfortable with any of this. How long?”

“That’s between me and your daughter.”

Ned swipes the paper from off the table and rolls it up, wrists pistoning to make it tight enough so that it will hopefully disappear. “You’re still going to play it that way? Pretending this only affects the two of you?”

“I’ll tell you whatever seems right for me to share. But there are certain things I can’t say.”

“There are things I can’t say now too,” Ned says, thrusting the newspaper away. It immediately comes unrolled, and he squeezes his eyes shut to keep from seeing the headline come unfurled before him again. Pointing blindly, he says, “I planned to say these were lies. I planned to have this shut down as vicious gossip about a young girl, undeserving of this kind of speculation.”

He opens his eyes, and drumming his hands against the arms of his chair, he grimaces. “I won’t lie for you. I can’t stop the press from dragging both of you through the mud over this. You’ll have to bear the consequences of your actions.”

“I understand.”

“Did you think about that before?” Or did he think of nothing but his own libido? “Did you think about Sansa? Or the rest of the family?”

“All I do is think about Sansa.”

Ned grunts. “You would have been better off thinking about getting a job. Or some girl not raised as your sister.”

It’s like a blasted Lifetime movie. The kind Cat used to watch, while feeding the babies late at night.

Jon rocks slightly forward and then back in his chair. “I know I have more work to do on myself to deserve her.”

Ned can’t think about that prospect. All he knows is that whatever is between them has to stop. The press will eat them alive. Jon and Sansa can’t have any concept of the things people are going to say. There’s a vague tease at the end of the article about Sansa and older men, implying that there is more of this story to tell, waiting to be dished out day by day like arsenic in your morning milk.

Ned stands, and the backs of his knees bash into his chair hard enough that it rocks, teetering on spindly legs. Grabbing the back, he rights it before it crashes to the ground. He can feel Jon’s eyes on him as he walks to the far end of the room. Folding his arms over his chest, he stares at the floor, focusing on the wood grain in some vain attempt to gain control of himself.

It hurts square in the chest. Worse than Robert’s betrayal. “I’ve never been so disappointed in you.”

He can hear the shuffle of Jon’s feet against the rug. “I wish you didn’t feel that way. We both, we both need the family to… we both need the family,” Jon finishes, his voice breaking.

To accept this change in Jon and Sansa’s relationship is a tall order for any of them. Ned’s gut rails against the idea, threatening to bring his breakfast back up. There are two little boys who are not going to understand at all. Arya will hate them for it. Cat. Ned sinks his head into his hands. God help them when Cat finds out. “Can you be persuaded to put an end to this? For the good of the family?”

“No.”

Ned turns back and fixes the back of Jon’s dark head with a heavy stare. “You weren’t raised to be selfish like that.”

When Lyanna was young, she was selfish. She was selfish and high strung and overly romantic, and Ned loved her for it even when he couldn’t be with her anymore. Maybe there’s more of her in the boy than he ever imagined.

“We didn’t want to hurt anyone.”

“That’s precisely what you’ve done. What you will continue to do if you don’t give this up.”

“I can’t. I don’t know how to put into words what she means to me. But my intentions are…”

Ned would like to blame Jon. Ultimately, that’s not wholly possible. No matter what the unnamed source claims, Jon, whose shoulders are visibly shaking underneath his black t-shirt, is no manipulative lothario. His problems are real. He doesn’t need to fake them, wouldn’t fake them to secure anyone’s love. It’s also not charitable to believe his daughter would be taken in by such a disgraceful act. Sansa’s strong and she’s not the child she was a mere two years ago. Whatever mess they’re in, they have sunk themselves in it together.

“Honorable,” Ned supplies. “Your intentions have to be honorable. Nothing else is acceptable.”

“I know.” Jon looks over his shoulder. Eyes the same color as Lyanna’s look back at Ned, sad and earnest and unguarded. “I promise you they are.”

Ned lets his hands drop to his sides. It never did any good to fight with Lyanna. He can sense this is just as hopeless a case. If they can’t quite make peace with it, somehow they need to start making sense of it. “We better get Cat.” If they’re lucky, she won’t order Ned to string Jon up with one of Sansa’s old jump ropes. “I’m warning you, she isn’t going to be happy.”


	38. Cersei

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cersei and Joffrey have an appointment with their lawyers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was requested on tumblr that I do a fancast for some of the other side characters in the series. You can see them [here](http://justadram.tumblr.com/post/112011347585/a-city-fancasts-for-secondary-characters-jeyne). As always, if you have a different vision for a character in mind, go with that. Feel free to hit me up on tumblr any time. I love interacting with my readers and fangirling over the books and show.

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Cersei

If Cersei had a choice, she would never get in a car with her son. At least not when he's driving. Today she didn’t have a choice. Robert washed his hands of the whole affair, Jaime refuses to show any interest, and while Jaime’s cousin Lancel has his uses, he’d be hopeless in a legal setting. Besides, Joffrey wouldn’t be thrilled about his not quite thirty year old cousin being included in today’s visit to Qyburn and Clegane, Attorneys at Law. It’s just the two of them, mother and son, and when he announced he would drive, Cersei knew to climb into the little red coupe without complaint. The path of least resistance is always best with Joff.

Joffrey is reckless in life and behind the wheel. On their drive across New Jersey, he’s proven again that he’s a danger to himself, his passengers, and anyone else on the road. When Joff was sixteen, Robert couldn’t even be bothered to teach him how to drive properly and it shows. Weaving through noonday traffic, he trails close enough that Cersei wonders how his front end doesn’t end in the trunk of the car in front of them before he nearly clips it, speeding ahead with a shouted curse.

You’d think his father’s accident and injury would give him pause, but it hasn’t. Over the years, she’s come to realize Joffrey is Jaime without any of his golden finesse. Jaime is an aggressive driver, but she never felt unsafe with him. Not even when he was a teenager and had a car that could go just as fast as Joff’s. Jaime never tried to kill her, whereas she thinks Joffrey is at least happily trying to frighten her.

Her hand slams into the side door and a crimson nail is sacrificed in service to preventing her shoulder from smashing into the window, when he swings across two lanes with a chuckle. It smarts, where it broke below the quick, and she curses with only slightly less creativity than her son.

With no regard for keeping his eyes on the road, he turns to glare at her. “What’s wrong with you?”

She knows better than to criticize. Even suggesting he watch the car in front of him won’t go over. Joffrey doesn’t appreciate correction of any kind. Never really did, although she made no sustained efforts to correct what seemed like harmless high spiritedness in him as a child. He was her first and as much her true love as his father ever was. A little motherly indulgence was to be expected.

“It occurred to me I might have forgotten those copies of those forwarded e-mails.” The ones from Margaery, Joffrey’s fiancé.

Cersei doesn’t like her—Jaime said she was pretty and Cersei thinks she’s a little too friendly to be believable—but at least she’s proven to be of some use in this mess with the Starks. They need ammunition against Jon Snow and Sansa, and being the girl’s former dear friend, Margaery has it in spades. Rumors are one thing, but copies of texts and e-mails between her and the Stark girl are the kind of evidence that will make a real difference in teaching the Starks they should have never messed with Cersei or her family.

“You better not. That’s the whole fucking point, Mother.”

“Don’t worry. I didn’t,” she assures him, reaching for her purse.

“Well, you forget everything. Is Alzheimer’s a thing with people your age?”

She grits her teeth, as he blows his horn at a black Cadillac driven by a woman with white hair. Someone who might reasonably have Alzheimer’s, instead of his mother, who was always the youngest mother in Joffrey’s class. “People my age? I’m hardly ancient, sweetheart.”

“Close enough. Margaery says women your age have to inject themselves with all sorts of crap to keep looking good.”

“Does she?” Cersei wonders whether his fiancé is as forthcoming with him about the irons and wax and gel she uses to achieve her look. Who meets a boy’s parents wearing shorts brief enough to be worn in a gynecological exam? Someone who is trading on her looks, not her brains. Someone who will happily inject herself to keep her face from falling some day. “She’s right. Some beauty is fading. Maybe that’s the case with her mother.”

“Her mother is kind of hot for an old lady.”

“Is she? They say a good plastic surgeon can do wonders for older women.”

“No, she’s pretty banging. Trust me. I had to check that shit out, so I didn’t end up married to someone who will look like a prune in ten years. Divorces are expensive as hell. Judges give women everything.”

Joffrey's estimation of the inequities of the judicial system are off, but forget a divorce. Cersei would like to prevent this marriage from ever happening, so Joff doesn’t need to worry about what kind of shape Margaery will be in after a decade. Margaery seduced him and he’s infatuated to whatever degree Joff can be attracted to someone other than himself, but there’s always something that can be done to take the shine off the apple.

Wearing a sweet smile, Margaery feeds them information about Sansa. Meanwhile, Cersei looks for the same kind of dirt on Margaery. It must be out there. Something sordid. Something to reveal to Joff with a furrowed brow after all this business with the Starks is over. He’ll melt down and then maybe be overwhelmed with gratitude towards his mother for having saved him for marrying where he shouldn’t. Even if he forgets to thank her for it, busting up this engagement will spare Cersei from having that twit as a daughter in law.

What a bitch, talking to her son about whether his mother might use Botox and fillers. Margaery’s beauty is purely the glow of youth. Cersei is a classic beauty. Jaime always said so.

“Like Sansa. She’s already got a stick up her ass. She’ll end up a total shrew like her mom,” Joffrey says, punching a button on the stereo. A song that’s been playing underneath the roar of the engine grows louder. Some kind of rap song that grates on her nerves more than a little bit.

Catelyn Stark is an attractive woman, but she’s also conservative and rather old fashioned. What you might call severe. Not that Cersei is going to argue the woman's virtues to Joff. If anything, it’s a relief to hear he doesn’t think she’s hot too. As it is, Cersei’s going to find it hard to be civil to Alerie Tyrell, when they inevitably meet.

So far they’ve avoided it and their communication has been entirely electronic. Cersei sends Margaery’s mother e-mails about the wedding, instructing her on what needs to be done, when, and how. The Tyrells are paying for what promises to be a lavish affair—as they should. Paying doesn’t mean they can be allowed to plan it without Cersei’s expert guidance. The Tyrells are rich to be sure, but not well versed in New York society. If there has to be a wedding, it needs to be the best one the city has ever seen, and no one knows how to achieve that better than Cersei.

Margaery’s mother has proved fairly complacent thus far. Working alongside Cat on this kind of thing would have been a nightmare. Her notions of what would constitute an appropriate reception would undoubtedly conflict with Cersei’s vision for Joffrey’s triumphal moment. Yet another reason to be thankful Joff didn’t end up letting Sansa hitch her wagon to his. They all dodged a bullet there.

“What this shows,” Cersei says loud enough to be heard over the music, “is that Sansa has no business acting like a stuck up prude.”

She pulls out the copies that peek from the top of the buttery tan leather of her purse and fans them out before her, looking away from the horror that is Joff’s driving. It’s a pleasure to reread the damning evidence. Hours have gone by, while she went over these pages, wine glass in hand and a smirk on her face, reading how inexpertly Sansa exposed herself and her family. It will be an even greater source of pleasure to give these pages to her lawyers.

_I embarrassed myself!! If you’d been there, Marg, you could’ve stopped me!_

_You know I wanted to be! So busy here, hun._

_I could die. No joke._

_I’m sure it was fine, girl. You’re supposed to be embarrassing on your 21 st._

_No. It was so not fine. I was drunk and flirty with Jon. He must have noticed._

_What is wroooong with me?_

_Jon. Snow. Jon Snow!_

_LOL_

_I asked him to come upstairs with me, Marg…_

_And did he accept?_

_No_

_Pooh_

Flipping through the thin stack of copies, you can chart the progression of their affair. First it was how nice he was. How good it was to hang out with him after their brother passed. How he understood. Then flirting with Jon Snow turned into waxing on about his lips in several text messages full of those inane little smiley faces kids use in their conversations. She said she’d had a dream about Jon that made it impossible to look at him at dinner. 'Accidentally' slept in his room one night. She talked about being confused and asked Margaery how to get over someone you shouldn’t be crushing on. It’s all honest and overly trusting and committed to paper.

What it isn’t is a confession of fucking her brother. Doesn’t matter. The lawyers don’t actually need that for the case against Jon, and the media already believes it’s true. When you pair that certainty with the business at the Night’s Watch, what’s going on between the two of them appears blatant. Why else would Jon hit Joffrey without provocation? There’s simply no explanation other than some kind of testosterone driven jealousy. Joff was there first, before everyone else had a ride. Must sting a little.

Senator Stark hasn’t denied any of it. They’ve been so laughably silent since the media began to run with Sansa Stark and Jon Snow’s lurid affair. Incest in the Senator’s townhouse. Sexcapades among New York’s finest. What an unexpected turn! What an unlikely duo!

No one has seen Jon Snow, who always has been weird and solitary, not the kind of man you would swoon over the way Sansa did in these messages. Sansa’s photo is only snapped getting in and out of the family limo, when she goes to whatever idiot job she has at that magazine. Ned Stark is not in D.C. His wife is absent from her usual charitable committees. The kids are on leave from school. They’re denned up for a winter that is quickly coming to an end.

Joff flips to another song, equally loud and obnoxious as the last one, shouting over it, as the beat builds. “I knew she was a slut. Always did.”

Cersei doubts that’s true, otherwise he wouldn’t have dated Sansa for as long as he did. But they certainly have ample evidence of her proclivities now. It’s not just Jon Snow she fucked under the nose of her puritanical parents. There’s Petyr Baelish too. A man old enough to be her father and a dean at her university. Cersei would think Sansa did it for some kind of advancement at school, but Margaery says Sansa failed out. Another delicious tidbit worth squirreling away.

Cersei wanted to know more about the dean. With the help of Osmund Kettleblack, a hooked nosed, hairy chested detective Cersei found in Tyrion’s rolodex on a trip to Lannister Mercantile, she did some digging. They’ve peeled away the oniony layers of Petyr Baelish bit by bit.

He’s an old friend of the Tully family. Cat’s particular friend since childhood. His nickname in high school was Littlefinger, and Cersei can only hope that had its origins in locker room teasing. A bit of an upstart, he’s the first one in his family to go to college, let alone end up teaching at one. Probably the type that’s dying to be accepted by the right sort of people. Dying to find his way into a family as lofty as the Tullys or the Starks. Almost managed it too. He messed around with Cat’s sister, Lysa, the unstable one with the ugly brat of a boy Cersei was exposed to on a vacation they shared with the Starks. Then he fucked Cat’s precious daughter.

It’s too perfect. Only _Days of Our Lives_ could script it better, unless it turns out Sansa is a practicing witch.

Cersei knew the girl was stupid, but if she had any thought for her future, fucking this sad dean was next level stupidity. Being indiscrete only compounded her error—talking about it in weepy e-mails, preserved for prosperity in Margaery’s inbox and now in Cersei’s hand, ready to be delivered to lawyers eager to rip into her.

When they build their case against Jon Snow, proof of Jon and Sansa’s budding relationship will provide a motive for Jon’s malicious attack. No one will question whether Joff was innocent.  It’s all they need. This information about the dean is icing on the cake. If the Starks so much as think about making an accusation of physical abuse against Joffrey, Cersei won’t feel the least bit sorry with hitting them with everything they’ve got. For once Robert was right: who would believe the word of a girl like that?

“She’s certainly made her bed,” Cersei says, tapping the papers together on her thigh to straighten them before slipping them back inside her purse. “I hope she enjoys lying in it.”

“I couldn’t care less what happens to her. Good riddance as far as I'm concerned. It’s Margaery who feels sorry for her.”

“She has a funny way of showing it, doesn’t she?” Cersei says, checking out her lipstick in car's side mirror with a tilt of the head.

Margaery needed no urging to produce this evidence, and she’s been making unflattering references to Sansa to Joff for months. That’s an ugly kind of friendship, which is precisely why Cersei doesn’t trust women.

“She only gave me all that stuff on Sansa because she loves me, but she has a soft heart.”

Doubtful, Cersei thinks, dropping her purse to the floorboards. Margaery clearly wants them all to believe she’s a gentle hearted princess of a girl, deeply in love. Appearances can be deceiving.

The rugs in Joff’s car are immaculate. Nothing to stain the leather on the bottom of her purse. Joffrey has his issues, but he’s always been impeccably put together and obsessive about his surroundings. Tyrion once had the nerve to assert that if Joff was smarter, his meticulousness would make him a candidate for a sociopathic diagnosis. A double insult Jaime refused to respond to.

As it turns out, you can't trust men either. Which leaves her completely alone to navigate this mess.

“Let’s not get too caught up in thinking about the wonder that is Margaery, hmm? Today’s appointment is important.”

“I fucking know that.”

“Of course, and you know lawyers. We’ll be on the clock, so we have to be focused.”

Money shouldn’t be an issue, but it is. Robert’s brother Renly has the investors all jittery with his inflammatory statements to the board about Robert's spending. The board hired King’s Guard Accounting—not Lannister Merc that could be trusted to make things look kosher—to investigate. Men in poorly fitting suits are going through Robert’s accounts with a fine tooth comb right this very moment, and she’s hamstringed to do anything about it. This meeting with her lawyers is the only thing she has any control of.

It’s like Renly wants them all to starve or live like goddamn paupers. While he swans about his night clubs. Asshole. Greedy prick.

Thank God Lancel works for King’s Guard. It was unpleasant, but his doe eyed appreciation for her blowing him in his apartment is the only thing that might save her and Robert from jail time for defrauding the company. You do what you have to do for your family.

She didn’t do it for Robert. She has no interest in saving Robert. With Robert doing time, she could shape a life out of the ashes. Probably garner some real sympathy too for her situation as the unwitting victim of his dirty dealings. She'd survive, so he can rot for all she cares.

But Cersei’s name is on almost everything they’ve taken with company funds—the houses, the cars, the boat—and proving she didn’t know what was going on with her name signed at the bottom of document after document would be tricky. Potentially impossible.

She can’t go to jail. Mothers have responsibilities. Myrcella would be all right: she’s strong and never required too much in the way of parenting. But Tommen is still a baby. Who would take care of him? It couldn’t be Jaime, when by all accounts Robert is his father. Not that she would trust Jaime to get the job done if she acknowledged him as the father. She can’t even trust him to be there for Joff, who might not be a kid anymore, but who definitely could use some guidance.

She and Robert can’t go to jail over this. It’s Jon Snow who needs to end up in jail, not them.

“Don’t lecture me,” Joff says, slamming on the breaks hard enough to snap her head forward.

They’re inches away from crashing, when she digs her nails, including the ragged, sharp one, through the fabric of her skirt into her thigh. But it’s a miss and a miss is as good as a mile, so she breathes out and flexes her hand, schooling her tone to be light. “I wouldn’t dream of it. I just want to make sure Jon Snow pays for what he did to you, sweetheart. Nothing else matters to me.”

“Oh, he’ll pay all right. Good old Qyburn and Clegane don’t mess around. They’ll go for the jugular, won’t they? Like good dogs,” he says, his head bobbing along to the thumping beat.

That’s what Cersei is counting on—no mercy. The Starks don’t deserve it. Not after Ned threatened her boy with a smear that would ruin his life. “They’ve never let me down before.”

Her son turns to her, hands drumming against the steering wheel, as he flashes a blindingly white smile. “When I’m finished with them, those pussy ass Starks are going to wish they were dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next are:  
> Tyrion  
> Catelyn  
> Jaime  
> Just 10 chapters left! I do have two additional outtakes in mind, so expect a little extra Jon/Sansa interaction in those.


	39. Tyrion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion's in no mood for visitors by the time his brother gets around to coming to see him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspiration for Tyrion's living room is [here](http://justadram.tumblr.com/post/115142834405/inspiration-for-the-upcoming-chapter-of-a-city). [Follow me](http://www.tumblr.com/follow/justadram) for more inspiration pics, updates, and fangirling nonsense.

Chapter Thirty-Eight: Tyrion

Jaime flops back in the square armchair, alongside Tyrion’s, a sweating glass clutched in his left hand. For all of its bells and whistles, Tyrion doesn’t think he’s ever seen his brother use the right one successfully. At least not with any fine motor task. Mostly it hangs there unused like an expensive, unwanted accessory.

Tyrion has a lifetime of experience in physical difficulties. That puts Tyrion in a position to offer some sternly worded advice to his brother, who is new to this kind of challenge. A lecture on how the world won’t adjust for you, so you need to adjust to it, might be exactly what Jaime needs, but Tyrion isn’t in the mood to offer any kind of assistance to anyone. Not even his brother.

Maybe especially his brother. He thought Jaime would champion him in this business with their father, not stand aside and do nothing. They might be adults, but Jaime is his big brother. That used to mean something. When no one else had his back, Tyrion could always count on his brother.

“I’m surprised you chanced visiting me,” Tyrion says with a rattle of his own drink.

Jaime arches a brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, I was fired on Monday. Today is Friday. I assumed the reason I hadn’t heard from you in the meantime was because father had imposed some kind of gag order on you. Otherwise you would have picked up the phone at least.”

“I came as soon as I could.”

“I was fired, Jaime. From the family business. You didn’t even call.”

It’s Tyrion’s birthright to have a place at Lannister Merc as much as it is Jaime’s. In recognition of that fact, Jaime should have been the first to beat a path to his apartment. What makes his absence even worse is that no one bothered to come. Not one fucking person was worried enough about him to make the trip to Chelsea.

Jaime takes a swallow from his drink, his movements unrushed. “It’s a difficult situation, and I’ve been busy.”

“Of course. So sorry to have forgotten how this tragedy of mine might have affected you.”

Jaime hasn’t been in to work for months and with Cersei completely ignoring him, Tyrion isn’t sure what fills Jaime’s hours. A whole heap of nothing, he imagines. The same thing that will be filling Tyrion’s hours, unless he can convince Barristan that his being fired and locked out of his files at Lannister Merc isn’t a serious stumbling block to his getting on there. So far he hasn’t managed to pull himself together enough to make a call over there though. As far as he knows, that’s a lost cause.

“Are you determined to make this unpleasant?” Jaime asks.

“I might be. Can you blame me?”

“I thought we were going to share a drink over the wreck of our family.”

Tyrion raises his glass in salute. “And so we are.”

Jaime frowns at his drink. “Ruins the scotch, when we take swats at each other.”

“Forgive me if I’m not in the best cheer. Being unemployed can do that to a man.”

“I can go if you want.”

“No, I’m sick of being surly alone. It’s more fun to be surly with you.”

As pissy as he's feeling, he's spent more than enough time this week drunk and alone.

Jaime sighs and shifts in the chair, some indecisiveness pulling lines in his otherwise timeless face. “Look, I’m sorry dear old dad canned you, but you always hated it there.”

“No,” Tyrion says, lifting his finger off his glass to point across the space between them. “I hated how I was treated there. I hated the blatant inequity. I didn’t hate my job. I was good at my job.” A fact their father either never realized or just never wanted to admit. Their patriarch couldn’t have valued his youngest son’s contributions all that much, otherwise he would have enticed him to stay, rather than kick him to the curb in such a humiliating way. Tyrion was locked out of his office Monday morning. All the account passwords changed. No one would look at him, much less speak to him.

“Course you were, best fucking person at the damn place.”

Tyrion nods, though he’s not entirely mollified by the compliment.

“The good news,” Jaime adds, “is that you’ll find a better job. One with that corner office you’ve always wanted.”

It’s the assurances of the pampered. “Easier said than done, unless you mean to write me a glowing reference,” Tyrion says with a tight grin. “You’ll have a real task ahead of you. Despite the fact that he’s half frozen, Father fired me from one of the most prestigious firms in the country and your ex is bad mouthing me all over this city, spreading her special kind of crazy. I don’t know how eager anyone will be to have me join their team.”

“You know I’ll help however I can.”

“Yeah, of course. Fit me in with your busy schedule.”

His brother crosses one long leg over the other and considers Tyrion for a moment, his glass hovering over the arm of the chair. He rests it against the red herringbone fabric and slowly turns it a complete 360. “You’re acting awfully put out for someone who was looking to leave the family business.”

“On my terms. Leaving and being fired are two different things.” One is triumphant. The other left him feeling half a man.

“You were bound to be fired, looking around for another job. Everyone in the city knew about it.”

“Thanks to Cersei. Besides, you think I shouldn’t have tried to find something better?”

“No,” Jaime says, toeing the piped edge of the ottoman before them with his perfectly polished dress shoes, “but how did you think father would respond? He would have fired you earlier if it wasn't for the stroke. You were living on borrowed time. You know how he is, family legacy and all that.”

Tyrion taps his nose with his index finger. “He should take a long look in the mirror, when he spouts that shit about family.”

Before Jaime can respond, Tyrion continues, “Speaking of family loyalty, you could have done something. On my behalf, I mean.”

Jaime uncrosses his leg, letting his foot fall back to the ground, but the noise is deadened by the grey rug under foot. “You think I could have kept him from firing you?”

“I think you could have tried. Give it the old college try.”

“Sorry,” Jaime says with a grin. “Never been to college.”

“I know,” Tyrion says, mirroring Jaime's smile, though he knows he looks ghoulish where Jaime charms. Smarts are one thing he's always had over his brother. Smarts and a real education paid for reluctantly by their father.

“Well, he didn’t consult me on it. But you might consider consulting an attorney. I don’t know anything about it, but you could have a case for wrongful firing.”

“Facing off against father’s attorneys? Not likely it would end well for me, Jaime. He’s got the best.”

If Tyrion is going to come out on top, it’s not going to be in the courts. This game will be played out elsewhere.

“You have something else in mind?”

He smiles into his glass. “Course I do.” He’s going to have to go for the jugular.

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“No stomach for it, hmm? Is that why you kept away this week? Afraid I'd involve you in my scheming?” he asks, rubbing his fingers together around his glass like a proper evil genius.

“I told you, I’ve been busy.”

“Shoddy excuse, brother. Reeks of guilt.”

Jaime tilts his head to the side, and then brings the glass to his lips. He winces through the swallow as if he never drinks the stuff. “Believe what you like.”

Jaime’s never been much of a drinker. It’s a waste, pouring him the special batch stuff. Tyrion should have known better.

“What is it then keeping you so busy? This crap with your son and the Starks?”

“No, I’m staying out of that.”

“Are you?”

Jaime turns enough that he can see through the window behind them. The light from the table lamps on either side of the chairs casts a glare over the glass, however, that makes it impossible to see much other than the outline of the building across the way. “If Joff wants to drag something this ridiculous through the courts, that’s his business. Let his mother deal with it.”

“Interesting. What does Cersei think about that?”

Jaime clears his throat. “I wouldn’t know.”

Jaime says that he and Cersei aren’t talking. Much like Tyrion doesn’t fully believe his drooling, slack faced father didn’t speak to Jaime about firing him, he doesn’t know whether he can believe that Jaime has no contact with his ex. Cersei might have been sick of Jaime’s self-pity act and cut him off, but she will want Jaime in her corner in this fight against the Starks. He’s always the one she wants in the end. That’s part of the decades old problem—they both want Jaime on their side and Cersei and Tyrion aren’t ever going to stand side by side willingly.

“I’m surprised she isn’t lighting up your phone twenty-four seven.”

Jaime shrugs. “Things have changed.”

Tyrion doesn’t miss the look Jaime gives his fancy artificial limb or the deep swallow of scotch he takes without the hint of a wince.

Tyrion rubs his nose with his open palm. “What a goddamn shit storm. You did hear that Senator Stark resigned.” The spray tanned anchors can’t stop bleating about it. Every talking head has a different opinion on the matter.

Jaime rattles the ice in his glass, nearly sloshing the contents over the rim. “Under pressure from his party.”

“For the good of the party,” Tyrion says, parroting back Ned’s comments to the media. The man looked stiff behind the podium with reporters standing and he admitted no questions afterward. “Father would heartily approve of that, wouldn’t he?”

“I don’t know. I think he thinks Ned Stark is an idiot.”

“Do you?”

“Maybe. An honorable sort of idiot, I guess.”

“Care for a refresher?” Tyrion asks, sliding down from the chair to refill his glass. He hates sipping from a nearly empty drink. Jaime shakes his head no, and Tyrion shrugs off the refusal. “More for me, he says, setting his glass on the small glass bar cart and pulling the glass stopper from the etched decanter. There's a swooping L on the front to remind him of his family legacy, the legacy his father denies him.

“I feel sorry for the bastard, he says, pouring the amber liquid over his partially melted ice cubes. “He’s just trying to get the media glare off the pair of them, I guess.”

To watch Jon Snow in news clips, you’d never think he’d have it in him to fuck his guardian’s daughter right under the somber man’s nose. No personal experience Tyrion had with the boy ever led him to believe he was anything other than a dutiful and somewhat morose duplicate of Ned Stark. Not the kind of young man who would be caught with his pants down like this. Always the quiet ones who surprise you.

“We’ll see if it works.”

Jaime’s right. It’s a redirection at a heavy price with no guarantee of success. Stark's days in politics are over. Especially with half the world convinced Jon is actually Ned’s flesh and blood. Nasty business and unlikely to be swept under the rug by his resignation, when people think incest is afoot. Tyrion can see why the party wanted to be rid of him as quickly as possible. “I wouldn’t have resigned no matter what screws they put to me. They would have had to drag my ass out of the senate, kicking and screaming.”

Jaimes makes a noise under his breath. “Because you don’t understand.”

“Is that right?” Tyrion asks, replacing the stopper.

“In this case, Tyrion, no.”

He picks up his glass, filled to the rim, and turns to face his brother. “Enlighten me then.”

“He’s protecting his family. That’s what matters most to the man.”

“I see.” A lesson in family is to be the order of the day then from a most unlikely source. Father of the damn year, Jaime Lannister. It’s enough to make Tyrion bark out a laugh. “You’d do the same then? For your kids?”

Jaime’s jaw works, as he taps the glass against the arm of the chair. “You would refuse to resign, because you’re more ambitious than Ned Stark. More ambitious than me. We want different things.”

Tyrion tips his head back to look up at the punched leather ceiling in an exaggerated eye roll. “Bull shit. Don’t tell me you didn’t want your name blared across every radio and television in this country. Jaime Lannister, first pick in the draft. Setting records for wins. A place in the hall of fame. You’re ambitious, Jaime. You just wanted a different kind of fame than I did. I was never going to leave my stamp in the world of sports.”

“Fine. That would have been nice, but the point is, I’d trade it for a life with Cersei.”

He’s already traded it because of Cersei, but Tyrion doesn’t figure that’s worth saying. Jaime won’t ever see how he traded his dreams for hers, so he lets his brother continue.

“And I know you don’t want to hear about that.”

No, Tyrion would rather talk about anything other than the possibility of a happily ever after between his brother and the toxic woman that has plagued their lives for too long. A change of subject will suit them both. “Regardless, I feel sorry for the lot of them,” he says, walking back to his chair. “Especially Sansa Stark. She was always a sweet girl.”

“That’s my impression,” his brother agrees, as Tyrion balances his drink and pulls himself back up into the firmly upholstered chair.

He huffs and takes a second to sip from his drink. “She probably thought she’d seen the last of that boy of yours, when she broke up with him.”

“Smartest thing she ever did.”

Smarter than getting herself caught with Jon Snow. “You’re not kidding. She’d have been better off never getting involved with Joff. And yet, he still draws them in, doesn’t he? How about that Margaery girl? That’s her name, isn’t it?”

“I think so. Tyrell.”

“Have you met her?” Most people would assume Jaime would have met his son’s fiancé, but Tyrion knows enough of Jaime’s disinterest to wager he hasn’t. “She was a friend of Sansa’s, they’re saying. How charming.”

“No, I haven’t met her, but I'm sure she’d be better off without him too.” There’s an uncomfortable stretch, where Tyrion doesn’t know whether he can afford to agree again with his brother about what a shitty son he has or whether he’s traded enough this evening on Jaime's good humor. Before he is forced to decide, Jaime speaks, interrupting the silence. “I saw something once.”

He seems content to leave it at that, which makes Tyrion prompt, “What kind of something?”

“It was after the Stark boy died in action. I was out and saw the two of them together at a club. Joff was rough with her.”

“Who? With Sansa?”

Jaime bends forward and sets his glass down on the ebony tray on the ottoman that serves as a coffee table. When he sits back, he straightens his pant leg with his hand, avoiding his brother’s gaze. “I took her home.”

“You're home or hers?”

Jaime's glare is his response.

“What did the boy do to her?”

“He had his hands on her. He was screaming.” Jaime shakes his head, his hand gripping his knee.

Tyrion doesn’t like to hear that his nephew behaved in that manner. Doesn’t like to think of any woman being treated like that. But he has to bite his lip to keep from smiling, as the image of Cersei’s face takes shape in his mind. Oh how Cersei would love to know that Jaime had swept in to save the day and took the very pretty Sansa Stark home. She would go as red as that lipstick of hers.

There are a lot of people who would be happy to have this piece of information.

“Do the Starks know about what happened that night?”

Jaime drums his fingers against his knee. “I haven’t the foggiest. If they do, it’s not from my lips.”

“Huh,” Tyrion muses. “What if Sansa told Jon Snow? It would explain why he gave Joff that beating your boy can't get over.”

“It would. But you’d think the Starks would be trumpeting it from the rooftops if they knew.”

That kind of press certainly wouldn’t hurt Snow’s case. It would do wonders for Sansa’s in the court of public opinion. It’s a very useful bit of information, particularly coming from Jaime, the boy’s father. His account would be given more credence than if someone outside of the Lannister camp came forward with evidence against Joffrey.

“You should tell them. Call the Senator and let him properly protect his family by giving him the ammunition to do it. I’ll even lend you my phone,” Tyrion says, patting his pocket.

“I’ve got my own, thanks.”

Jaime doesn't move, giving more attention to the weave on his pants than his brother.

“Are you going to call?”

“I’ll think about it,” his brother says.

From his blank face, Tyrion can tell he won’t be calling any of the Starks, no matter how unhappy he was with Joff’s treatment of Sansa that night. Whisking her out of there would be the extent of his service to her. Jaime can be rather gallant when he wants to be. This should be the sort of thing that would draw him to act. There must be something preventing him from doing the right thing. Something or someone.

“Cersei wouldn’t like it, would she? If you spilled the beans and jeopardized the trial and Joff’s precious reputation.”

Jaime scratches at chin, pretending to consider. “No, she wouldn’t.”

They might not be talking at the moment, but his brother obviously won’t have given up hope of reconciling with Cersei. Going behind her back to aid the Starks would dash any hopes of winning her back. Cersei would never forgive him for choosing the Stark girl over their son. The boy’s guilt would have no bearing on her feelings. She’s not the best mother, but she’s certainly a fierce one.

Tyrion rubs at his nose again, this time more roughly, as he turns something over in his head, weighing the consequences of speaking. He’s heard things about Cersei, which he knows Jaime is oblivious to. His brother has made himself such a shut in since the accident that the details of New York’s gossip mill don’t always reach his ears. Tyrion has kept the gossip to himself, because he didn’t want to needlessly hurt his brother. That might have been the wrong thing to do. If Jaime knew what Cersei had been up to, he might be more inclined to do the right thing.

Jaime should have written her off years ago, but he’s a blind fool. And for Tyrion, the issue goes beyond mere brotherly concern. Cersei is partly to blame for his firing. He would so enjoy watching her burn and if Jaime struck the match to light her pyre, it would be true poetic justice.

“I don’t think you should concern yourself with her feelings anymore. She’s not concerned with yours.”

Jaime's bright green eyes cut over to Tyrion. “There’s a lot of history there.”

“Not so much that she thought fucking our cousin would be out of line.”

His brother’s Adam’s apple rolls. “Excuse me?”

“Cousin Lancel.”

“Careful, Tyrion. You're not funny.”

Tyrion presses on, undaunted by his brother's quick breath and heavy frown. “What is he, twenty-eight? You think Cersei prefers them young now?”

Uncle Kevan’s oldest is quite the arrogant little shit. He played college ball, which irks Jaime, since he never got a chance to take his career that far. He also resembles Jaime enough to pass as a second brother. A younger, not quite as handsome copy of Jaime. The similarities can’t have escaped Jaime. Must not sit all that well with him either, as he digests Tyrion’s claim. Lancel is a little shorter and his hair a somewhat darker shade, but Cersei probably doesn't mind the differences all that much after having to climb into bed with Robert night after night. Of all the rumors swirling around Cersei, that’s the one Tyrion finds it easiest to believe. Particularly when it’s Lancel's firm that’s handling the investigation into Robert’s handling of Baratheon Industries’ finances. She can use Lancel and that's always what mattered most to Cersei in choosing who to surround herself with.

It's a decidedly believable rumor, but it’s not the only rumor.

“She’s fucking Osmund Kettleblack too.”

“Who?” Jaime grunts.

“A Jersey detective. I know he’s a shady piece of shit, because I’ve used him myself. Just not in the sheets the way your ex apparently has.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“She’s not as sneaky as she thinks she is, Jaime. Trust me on this one. She’d probably fucked the gardener too if it meant her roses looked better than the neighbor’s as a result. She’s been running around behind your back for years, making you look like a real fool.”

Jaime stands, and Tyrion scowls at the advantage his brother so easily gains, towering over him with his arms crossed over his chest. “Then we really do have something in common, don’t we?”

“How do you figure?”

“Has Shae come to visit since you were fired?”

Tyrion stares up, his mouth firmly pressed closed in tense silence.

“She hasn't, has she? No surprise there. She must be awfully busy now that father is out of the hospital and done with rehab. He probably needs her more than ever. If you’re looking for confirmation that someone is under a gag order not to talk to you, you might try calling her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: Cat, Jaime, Sansa


	40. Catelyn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catelyn wants nothing to do with the Lannisters, but they keep insinuating themselves into her life.

Chapter Thirty-Nine: Catelyn

Tyrion Lannister calls, and when Catelyn fails to answer, he leaves three insistent voicemails on her personal line, a number he by all rights shouldn’t have on file. He urges her rather vehemently to call him back both times before she finally does.

Ned doesn’t know about the calls. They’ve been a team throughout this nightmare. Ever since the early days of their marriage, they’ve been a team. Even on the most difficult days—like when Jon Snow was brought to their house by Luwin or when they buried their precious boy—they’ve been a united front. When things got tough in D.C., it was Cat reminding Ned of what a difference he made to the citizens he represented. She was the one to pack up the kids for an unexpected visit to their father, so she could stand beside him and help carry the burden. He worked so hard to do the right thing, and while Cat marveled at the career he built for himself, he tended to only see where he could do better.

There won’t be any more opportunities to do better. That’s all behind them now, and she has stood by during this new stage of disgraced withdrawal from public life as stalwartly as she did during his successes. Dressed as though for a funeral, Cat stood alongside her husband as he announced his resignation, a figurative death of everything he’s worked for since he first ran for office out of a dedicated sense of civic duty.

They present the outward united face to the world, and though they don’t always agree privately, they are a united front at home too. Every family meeting they’ve shared the burden of explaining to the children why they can’t go to school or how they’re not to answer their phones or post to the internet or why no one is allowed alone in Jon’s room.

Being supportive doesn’t mean tacit agreement. When disagreement didn't serve the greater needs of the family, she’s bitten her tongue hard enough to bite right through it. What she wants to say is that it’s Jon’s fault. That he’s a damn pervert who can’t keep his hands to himself. She shouted it at Jon and she’s said as much to Ned behind the doors of their bedroom, but that’s where her true commentary found its limit. As furious as she and Ned are about Jon and Sansa's deception, the media can’t be allowed to see signs of family discord. The children have to be kept unaware of it too. They’re confused and unhappy enough as it is.

Teamwork is how they've survived. This call, however, is one she means to handle herself. Her husband has enough on his plate with the charges against Jon and giving up his senate seat, so Cat pulls up Tyrion’s missed call log with the lock thrown on the bedroom door. She’s ready to meet this fresh threat alone.

After only one ring—awfully quick—a recognizable drone says her name. “Catelyn.” It’s almost as if Tyrion has nothing to do but sit by the phone. If so, he possesses the luxury of time. The expanse of time possessed by those concerned exclusively with their own affairs. A person not consumed with fighting for their family.

“You should call me Mrs. Stark.” Paid assassins might as well be respectful, when they’re called in to twist the knife lodged in your back.

“If you prefer,” he says, his voice dipping in evident amusement.

That he can find any humor in this confirms for her what kind of person he is. What kind of people all the Lannisters are. As if she needed further proof. “I do.”

“Mrs. Stark, I’m surprised you called. I was ready to find another way to contact you. A personal visit even, though it would have meant putting out rather more effort than I’m accustomed to.”

That was one of the reasons Cat came up here after breakfast, shut her bedroom door, and called him. She was worried that being badly raised, Tyrion might turn up at their home and cause a scene, without a care for the fact that their house is surrounded by the paparazzi. Better to deal with him where no one, including the men with cameras and her children, could observe the fallout. “Yes, well, I saved you the trouble. Now what do you want?”

“So testy. Believe it or not, you’re going to thank me before this call is over.”

Catelyn’s nostrils flare at the taunt. “I doubt it.”

“I’d think you were an idiot if you didn’t. But I want to help put a stop to my nephew’s efforts to ruin your family’s life. Do you think you’d be interested in that sort of thing?”

Catelyn shifts on the bed, as she stretches one foot out in front of her, the toe of her sensible navy heel pointing towards the window. That wasn’t the opening to their conversation that she prepared herself for—hardly a call to battle—but she’s not going to blindly accept a Lannister’s offers of assistance. Not one of them can be trusted.

“You’ll have to speak quickly. I’m very busy,” she says, attempting to keep her voice completely level, though her patience is tested with every flippant phrase he utters.

“In which case, would you like to tape me?”

“Excuse me?”

“Record our conversation. To get all the details down later after we’re finished. For proof or your lawyers. It’s only a suggestion.”

“You’d have yourself be implicated in a conversation about your nephew?” Turning on his own? Catelyn thought Tywin ran a tighter house than that, but then, Tywin isn't exactly in his prime anymore.

“There’s no reason to conceal my contribution to Joff’s undoing. I’d be happy if he and his mother knew it was me. Just thought you should know that.”

She frowns, ever more confused by his babbling. “That won’t be necessary. Go ahead, Mr. Lannister. I’m listening.”

“Excellent. My nephew,” he pauses, clears his throat, and sounds as if he swallows something. “He has a habit of pushing women around. Has your daughter ever said anything about that?”

Sansa certainly has. Remembering Sansa’s pale face, when she recounted how her ex-boyfriend treated her at the end of their relationship, is enough to make Cat bunch the comforter under her hands. Her nails dig in to the down filled comforter, the way she’s pictured scratching his baby face. The only one in their household who had the pleasure of indulging those kind of impulses is Jon—hardly fair, when he least deserved the satisfaction. At first, Cat’s anger towards Jon was mollified by Sansa’s confession about Joffrey. Someone had defended her daughter, and while Jon’s actions brought ugly attention their way, there was something gratifying about knowing Joffrey had been taught a much needed lesson. That was before. It’s hard to feel anything remotely positive about Jon now.

They decided with the lawyer that revealing Joffrey's violent past is best saved for later. So while Tyrion might want her to admit she knows something, she has to be cagey. “What makes you think that…” she says, searching for a word to call that vile boy, before settling on “ _young man_ pushes women around?”

“Several things. For one, he knocks his little sister around. Always has. That I’ve seen with my own eyes. I never saw anything happen between Sansa and Joff, but my brother tells me he got your daughter out of a situation with his son one evening.”

“What kind of situation do you mean exactly?”

“Not a nice one. Jaime saw him manhandling her at a club.”

Sansa only spoke of one incident. A public one on Valentine’s Day. Sansa didn't mention a club or Jaime Lannister. “I don’t follow.”

“She hasn’t told you?” He makes a humming sound against the receiver and then starts in again, speaking as quickly as Catelyn urged him to do, though now she wishes he would slow down. “Apparently there’s more to his behavior than an older brother simply roughing up a sister for far longer than he should have been allowed. From Jaime’s description of that night, I’d say Joffrey qualifies as an abusive little shit.”

Cat bounces her foot. It feels as if Tyrion is being purposefully vague, teasing, dragging this out for his own entertainment. It turns her stomach to think someone is taking some weird pleasure in recounting a story like this. “Are you going to give me the details, Mr. Lannister?”

“I don’t have too many, I’m afraid. Which is why I told Jaime he should call you himself.”

“Then why didn’t he?” she snaps.

Tyrion coming to her like this is almost too good to be true. It could be a trap. A lie crafted to get a worried mother to reach out to the enemy. Cat can’t imagine how it would benefit the Lannister and Baratheon camp to get her to come begging to their golden boy for information. Even if Tyrion has gone rogue and is no longer in line with the rest of them, there must be self interest underlying Tyrion’s call. It’s inconceivable that he would reach out to her for purely altruistic reasons.

“Why didn’t Jaime run to call you and incriminate his son? I suppose for the same type of reasons your sister has been going to the press instead of keeping her lips buttoned. We all play our own angles, don’t we? We have our interests to protect. Jaime certainly has his, and his allegiance doesn’t necessarily encourage him to do the right thing.”

Cat barely hears anything Tyrion says after invoking her sister. Her sister has been cold—cold even for Lysa—ever since Cat called to warn her about Petyr. When Sansa's affair with their former childhood friend found its way into the papers and blogs, Cat hardly expected her sister to ring her up and commiserate after months of iciness. Not hearing from Lysa was simply more of the same. It would have been nice for Lysa to show an interest in her niece’s welfare or Ned’s political death spiral, but Cat was hardly surprised when she remained silent through all of it.

Silence is the only sin Cat thought she could lay at her sister’s feet. What Tyrion seems to be insinuating would be so much worse. It wouldn’t be benign neglect on the part of a selfish, unbalanced sister. Going to the press with rumors of Sansa’s affair with Petyr would be the worst kind of betrayal. If that is what Lysa did, which Cat can't believe she did.

“I don’t particularly like where you’re going with this,” Catelyn says.

“Family betrayals sting the worst. I know a little something about that.”

Cat presses her fingers to her mouth. She has no idea what Tyrion’s family issues are and she doesn’t care. All she wants is to keep him on topic, so they can end this discussion as quickly as possible, and she can decide how best to move forward. “To be clear, are you telling me you have evidence of my sister talking to the press? About my daughter?”

“I am. There’s a whole little nest of vipers at work here, Mrs. Stark. Your daughter’s old friend, Margaery, my nephew, Cersei, and your very own sister have all made fast friends with the press. They all have a virulent case of verbal diarrhea.”

She wrinkles her nose. “No. Lysa would never.”

“But she has. She must not like you very much.”

Cat stands and paces away from the bed, the phone gripped tightly in her hand and her footfalls deadened by the thick rug. “How would you know?”

“Money. I might have been fired from my father’s company, but I’ve still got enough squirreled away to get what I need from people. If you pay people well, they’ll tell you anything.”

“And?” she prompts, stopping to pull aside the curtain on the northern window and let it fall closed again without looking outside.

“I greased a few palms at channel 4. My people over there told me  your sister has been almost as eager to pass along juicy details about your daughter as Joff’s fiancée has been.”

Cat pulls the phone away from her face to curse. Why in God’s name would Lysa do such a thing? What had Cat and her family ever done to Lysa to make her want to hurt them? She repeats her swear, remembering this time to hold her finger over the microphone. When she uncovers it and brings the phone back up to her ear, he’s already talking again, a distasteful, chipper quality to his rambling.

“Shame you can’t choose your family, isn’t it? I’d get rid of most of mine in a heartbeat if I could. Maybe all of them. After this, I’d suggest you ditch your sister. Probably that Jon Snow too, huh?”

If only. As a prisoner in this house, Cat is forced to see way more of Jon than she wants. What she’d really like is to show him the door. Sometimes she thinks that boy going to jail would be the best outcome for all of them. It would certainly be the best hope for Sansa's future.

Catelyn can hardly stand to look at him. Not only because of what he did, but because looking at him sitting there, perched on a stool in her kitchen, while he drinks coffee and tries to avoid her stare, she can’t help blame herself for not being more proactive. She should have said something to Ned. She should have pulled Sansa aside and warned her. She saw it developing between her daughter and Jon, that inappropriate, too close relationship, which eventually gave way to something unspeakable.

He’s a grown man and there’s no reason they should be forced to keep him here in their home after what he did, betraying Ned’s trust and taking advantage of Sansa’s vulnerability. Ned doesn’t see it that way. He’s disappointed in Jon and he wants him to keep his distance from Sansa. But he doesn’t seem to agree with her that Jon seduced their daughter, and he won’t hear of kicking Jon out.

_He’s not himself, Cat. We throw him out now and I’m afraid of what will happen._

Should they be afraid of being better off as a family? Hardly.

Cat didn’t rein in her emotions, when Jon first admitted to sneaking around behind their backs. She let him know exactly what she thought of him. Ned says she went too far, and since that day, she hasn’t yelled. She’s limited expression of her displeasure to silent, narrow eyed censure.

A lot of good stern disapproval has done. She knows they’re still at it. Sansa’s room is off limits and so is Jon’s. Arya is angry enough about the two of them being a thing that she’s as much a chaperon as Catelyn and Ned are. But they can’t follow the love birds around every moment of every day without becoming wardens in their own home. They certainly can’t prevent them from mooning at each other across the dinner table. Moving Sansa to the other side, where Jon’s hands couldn’t find her under the table, didn’t solve all their problems. A jail cell would do the trick.

Tyrion laughs at his own joke, and she takes another look at the phone, her thumb hovering over the red end call symbol, considering. Surely he’s given her enough information and she could take it from here. Tyrion wasn't even privy to the incident between Sansa and Joff. Jaime was. Spending any more time listening to Tyrion is time wasted. Time she could spend planning how to convince Jaime to do the right thing.

The distance from her ear doesn’t save her from hearing Tyrion, his voice raised in question, say her name several times. She breathes sharply through her nose and brings it back up to her cheek. “Watch yourself, Mr. Lannister.”

“My apologies. My sense of humor isn’t for everyone, but we’re on the same side, I assure you.”

“I don’t want to be on your side.”

“Be that as it may, with insurrection in the ranks, you’re going to need allies. Even ones you don't particularly love, Mrs. Stark.”

“I’m not worried about finding it in my heart to love you.”

“Oh good. Definitely simplifies things,” Tyrion says with a laugh. “But bear with me for a second. I can come forward with what I know about Joffrey. Your daughter can do the same, and we could let that play out in the press. But you’re not the only one who hates me in this city and no one is ready to believe a word your daughter says after the smear campaign she’s been subjected to. Your best option is my brother. Nothing would look quite as damning as a statement from the boy’s own father, don’t you think?”

If what Tyrion says is true, having a Lannister witness to Joffrey’s abuse would prove helpful. Having that witness be Jaime Lannister would do more than tarnish Joffrey’s claims of total innocence. They couldn’t easily shake it off. The media would be all over it. Instead of Catelyn’s daughter, everyone would be ready to tear into Joff. Rightfully so.

Cat swallows, as her mind flips through this unexpected wealth of information. Maybe Tyrion’s suggestion to record this conversation wasn’t a complete joke. A change of heart driven by whatever motivates him might ensure he never admits to this again. “What is it you claim your brother saw exactly?”

“Jaime was at a club. He saw Joffrey and Sansa. My nephew had his hands on her. He was screaming. Jaime said he was rough with her. That’s all I know about it, other than the fact that my brother drove her home afterward. Did I mention that before?”

“No.”

“Probably in that sexy little car of his. I’m so surprised she didn’t tell you.” Cat can hear the sneer in his voice. He’s offering assistance, but there’s no real affection on either side of this conversation. “If you want to know more than that, I’m afraid you’ll have to go straight to the the knight in shining armor for the dirty details.”

Jaime Lannister knows what happened that night, but so does Sansa. Cat wishes all of the Lannisters wiped off the face of the Earth if for no other reason than to save Sansa from having to discuss this any further. Jon Snow can disappear right along with them per Tyrion’s suggestion. Even if Cat would have to greet Sansa’s long face every morning afterward until she finally forgets about him and finds some nice, suitable young man to date.

As a mother, Cat can do the tough thing, the necessary thing. If she has to compel her daughter to recount yet another painful incident, she’ll do it. Sansa has proven to be truthful when pressed. There’s little chance that Tyrion’s pretty boy brother will be as forthcoming.

Indeed, Jaime turns out to be more difficult to get in touch with than Cat made herself, when Tyrion was calling her with eager, vague promises. It forces her to do the very thing she feared Tyrion would do: show up unannounced at Jaime’s apartment. At least his apartment isn’t surrounded by the paparazzi the way the Stark’s home is, but that doesn’t mean her visit won’t be covered in the press. The vultures attempt to follow her, when she leaves their townhouse for the first time since Ned’s painful announcement. It takes some skillful maneuvering on the part of their chauffeur to lose them before he lets her out in front of Joff’s father’s loft, but she can’t shake the feeling of having eyes on her as she opens the door and waits before the large, industrial elevator with her dark sunglasses on to hide the emotions some hidden camera might catch playing across her face.

Jaime doesn’t have the benefit of an accessorized shield to conceal his shock, when he opens his door to her. But it only takes a moment for him to beam a megawatt smile at her, as he tilts his head and tucks that new, prosthetic arm they talked about in the papers behind the partly open door.

“Catelyn Stark. What a distinct pleasure.”

“An unwelcome one, I’m sure,” Cat says, though she’s glad he doesn’t shut the door in her face, as he might, as Cersei’s most enduring champion, ex or not.

“Unexpected, but never unwanted,” he says, managing to keep his smile in spite of his obvious lie. There would be no reason for him to be pleased to see her. “Would you like to come inside? I can get you a drink.”

She can see a pie shaped slice of his loft over his shoulder. Cold, hard, the living space of a bachelor, who lives an impeccable kind of life if an empty one. “No thank you. ”

He gives her a lazy shrug before leaning into the door frame. “Suit yourself.”

“What I have to say will be quick.”

“Oh, well. That sounds ominous.”

There's the smile again: white and straight and inexplicably charming. He's gifted with good looks, but she wonders whether there is any true substance behind the façade. She's about to find out.

“Your brother told me about what you saw pass between my daughter and your son. Tyrion told me how Joffrey treated her.”

Jaime's grin slips into a blank expression, punctuated only by a narrowing of his green eyes. “Did he?”

“You have to know what my daughter is being put through in the press. Her reputation is being dragged through the mud.”

“I’m sorry to see it,” he says without any real feeling behind the words.

“Are you?” she asks, her voice wavering, because she is beyond sorry. None of them deserved any of this, especially her children.

He looks her up and down, as if it is her character under evaluation and not his. “I'm not a monster.”

“Prove it.”

“Why should I need to prove anything to you?”

“To the world then. You could do the right thing. The honorable thing.”

He shifts on his feet, crossing his arms over his chest, forgetting for a moment to keep his prosthetic out of sight. “By doing what exactly?”

“You could come forward. Tell the truth for once. It could save my daughter.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next is Jaime, Sansa, and Dany. We're in the homestretch! I was a little slower than usual with this update, but feel free to [follow me](http://www.justadram.tumblr.com) and poke me about updates and progress or whatnot. In addition to the remaining chapter, I've got two planned outtakes, both of which focus on Jon x Sansa, in case you can't get enough of that dynamic.


	41. Jaime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's no better way to fill up his hours, so Jaime ends up getting to Blackwater Rehab before his session with Brienne is supposed to start.

Chapter Forty: Jaime

Brienne’s eyes lift, as Jaime shoulders through the door of Blackwater Rehab, head held high with his sneakers squeaking on the tile floor. Something like surprise or pleasure makes her eyes go wide, and they manage to look startlingly pretty despite the unflattering fluorescent lighting overhead.

“You’re early, Lannister.”

“Nothing better to do,” Jaime says as flatly as he delivers every other statement these days, and the shine goes right out of her eyes, leaving her looking ordinary at best once more.

It isn’t his fault if the physical therapist mistook his promptness for burgeoning enthusiasm, but he still attempts to lift his mouth into something like a smile, while she stands and motions him past Blackwater’s sign-in desk. The skinny kid with straight hair who mans the computer at the desk looks cowed by their approach, shrinking into his white sneakers and staring down at the floor. Everyone calls him Pod. Jaime hopes that’s a nickname for the kid’s sake.

“Pod will get you all signed in and you can pay on your way out, so we can get right to it,” Brienne says, as she plods into the main rehab room, where six other people are either engaged in torture or being tortured. “Maybe squeeze in a little extra work with this additional time we’ve got today.”

She’s always eager to put him through his paces. In a lighter moment, i occurred to him to suggest she might be in the wrong line of work. Brienne could make more money, good money, applying her skills elsewhere. Somewhere dark and equipped with whips, chains, and gags, instead of giant rubber exercise balls. But she’s too innocent for jokes about femdoms. It would either throw her into an spiral of red faced embarrassment—something he would have once found amusement in before reaching the point where nothing could make him smile—or the joke would fly right over her head and she’d ask oddly serious questions until he regretted ever making it.

“Have you been practicing?” she asks, as he digs his wallet, keys, and phone out of his pocket and tosses them on the plastic table where the little blue ball and telescoping wand are laid out ready to go.

“Yeah, I have actually. Very diligently.”

She blinks at him with her bushy, uncombed brows drawing together. She’s never what you would call talkative, but it’s obvious his admission has left her speechless. There’s a good chance she assumes he’s teasing her.

He grabs for the ball with his good hand. “Like I said, I’ve got nothing better to do.”

Thinking obsessively about Cersei’s tanned legs twined around the hairy tool he found through inexpert Googling only takes up so much of a day. Or a night. At some point, after Catelyn Stark’s unexpected visit, he woke up on his sofa, rolled off his back, and decided he wanted to do something with his life. No clear idea what that something would be, but he knew what he wouldn't be. He wasn’t going to be a great baseball star. He wasn’t going to run Lannister Mercantile and be the impressive businessman his father envisioned. He wasn’t even going to be Cersei’s husband.

Osmund Kettleblack. Osmund fucking Kettleblack.

Jaime stops, breathes in through his nose to expand his chest and slow the sharp thud of his heart. Osmund Kettleblack and their goddamn cousin Lancel.

Jaime was never going to be with Cersei again.

But that didn’t mean he would never amount to anything. With more than half of his life ahead of him, there was still plenty of time to do something worthwhile, something that would change people’s minds about him and create a meaningful legacy for himself. If he was going to be somebody, he figured he better start learning how to use his new hand without knocking over the water glass every time he went out to dinner. It’s hard to maintain your dignity, when it looks like you pissed yourself, while dining at the White Sword Tower.

“Show me,” Brienne says with a stiff nod.

“Will do, coach.”

Passing the ball to the prosthetic hand, which has been holding him back for almost a year now, he gives it a couple good squeezes with an arched brow. Using this fake hand still doesn’t feel natural, and he can’t bring himself to ask if it is something he will eventually become accustomed to, but he can work the thing with more facility than previously. To prove it, he tosses the ball up and catches it, giving a flick of his wrist on the downward arc purely for show. He was flashy like that on the mound, and it never cost him the way it cost other showboats. He was golden, untouchable.

Successfully catching this ball is hardly an All Star maneuver, but it impresses her nonetheless. She smiles back at him with big, crooked teeth, and her nod changes from all business like instruction to a quick, encouraging bob of her floppy hair. He wonders how she would have reacted to watching him play in his prime.

“You weren’t kidding,” she says.

“I’d never kid you about something so deadly serious,” he says, elbowing her in the side.

She’s as solid as a brick wall. It never ceases to throw him to find how very unlike Cersei she is. She’s hard where Cersei is soft. She’s kind where Cersei is cruel. She’s true where Cersei is false.

Did it have to be cousin Lancel? Who could play Jaime in a cheesy Lifetime biopic?

Jaime huffs and gives the ball another toss. Smaller than the last, because he can feel his control slipping away.

Brienne could have made a tidy sum for herself selling him out to the tabloids. She could have taken pictures to show the whole world how ridiculous and useless Jaime Lannister was with his prosthetic hand. She could have passed along information. Sold stories. But she’s been true to him with very little in way of compensation from this mediocre job. And most of the time he hasn’t even been particularly nice to her.

She blushes at the jab he gives her, and her freckles nearly melt away in the familiar flush of red that spreads from her neck, over her square cheeks, into her hairline.

He can feel the eyes in the room on them, as he bounces the ball in his plastic and metal palm and takes a half step away from her. Everyone is always staring when he’s here. Any of these assholes could sell him out, which is why he would prefer to have their sessions somewhere more private. Unfortunately, Brienne thinks he’s being petulant if he refuses to leave his loft for a session. Being that tall, she had to have been teased as a kid and maybe she developed a thick skin, but he doesn’t have the years of experience of being gawked at like he’s grown a second head. It doesn’t sit well with him.

“Before I go today, I want you to give me your address. Remind me.”

“Why would you need my address?” she asks, crossing her muscled arms one over the other.

“I’m going to have some things shipped there,” he says, scratching his brow with his left hand, as the squishy ball rocks in the other palm. It hadn’t occurred to him, when he placed the order, but Brienne could live in one of those efficiency apartments with barely any room to turn around in, let alone host a room full of physical therapy equipment. “I hope you have space for it in your apartment.”

“For what?”

He presses his lips together and gives a infinitesimal shrug of his shoulders. “Just the equipment you need to get started on that private practice you mentioned last week.”

She looks down and slides the black wand across the table, needlessly rearranging it a half turn. “Excuse me?”

“Equipment. Table, treadmill, bike, stackable steps, ultrasound, plenty of balls of course.” He gives the ball a toss, but fails to catch it with the same flare as a moment earlier. There’s a graceless jerk of the hand, as he saves the ball from falling. He frowns. “You have a laptop, right? I got you a prescription exercise software program, but it won’t do you or your clients any good without a laptop to run it on. A printer too, I guess.”

As it turns out, torture equipment is rather expensive, but Jaime didn’t have any trouble affording it. The bonus from Christmas that his father gave him easily covered the cost. Before signing it away to the medical supply company he found on the internet, it was sitting in the bank, collecting interest he didn't need. It would do Brienne more good than it could ever do him. She’d appreciate it, and he’d feel more comfortable being rid of it. Lately, everything about Lannister Merc felt wrong, even the money he made from it. With every passing day, it felt increasingly off working there without his brother.

Then again, his brother was a goddamn asshole he wouldn't really like to be forced to see every day. Not after he clearly enjoyed delivering the news of Cersei’s infidelity like Tyrion enjoys his small batch whiskeys.

“I have a laptop,” Brienne manages to respond, while looking like she’s had her bell rung. Eyes rounded and mouth slightly open, all she’s missing is a shiny red patch from his verbal blow. “What for?”

“Earth to Brienne. I just told you. Software.”

“No, I meant, why would you do something like that for me?”

It’s a valid question, and Jaime isn’t sure he has a good answer.

Everyone in his life is a total shit—himself included. Except Brienne. She is annoying and pigheaded and stupidly loyal.

It happened slowly and then all at once, the way his world bottomed out, leaving him rudderless and adrift. The only constant in his life is these appointments and her rough insistence that he keep working towards some mythical self-improvement that only she believes he’s capable of. Week after week he comes here and she takes his bullshit, and she is good and honest and puts up with him in his current the way no one else would. In thanks for that, he wanted to practice the exercises she prescribed and come back here with something to show for it.

“Shut your mouth, Brienne. You’ll catch flies,” he advises. Her eyes really are beautiful and her strength has an unexpected appeal. Still, he doesn’t want to fuck her. The equipment isn’t an excuse to get inside her apartment and her bed. But he does think about her. Sometimes. Especially after soaking his shirtfront in public. “I’d rather visit a private practice than make a fool of myself here. You refuse to come to my loft anymore, so I was stuck dragging out the credit card.”

“You’d set me up in a practice to stop coming here?”

“Well, you’re good at what you do. Look at what a success I am,” he says, as the ball drops to the floor between them.

Brienne bends down to snatch it back up, not missing a beat, despite his ill-timed demonstration of continued imperfection. “I don’t know what to say,” she mumbles.

“A thank you will do, and then we should probably get back to work. I still can’t pick up a damn glass without spilling down my front, which won’t be very good advertisement for your abilities if anyone finds out who my therapist is.”

“A thank you isn’t enough,” she says, her eyes darting away from his, as she squeezes the ball the way she’s instructed him to do, rep after rep until the muscles in his bicep spasm unlike they ever did when he played ball and everything came so effortlessly.

“Then you could swear to help other wealthy, sad saps out with their recovery. You're good at what you do, Brienne. You deserve it.”

She shakes her head, her lip quivering in a way he didn't expect. “I’ll pay you back. We can consider it a loan.”

“No need,” he says, extending his hand and curling his fingers in twice. “Get me back to my old self, and I’ll consider us square.”

“You’re doing well,” she says, handing him the ball. “Have you thought about joining that softball meet up in the park on Sundays?”

“No. My life is a little too complicated at the moment to make a grand spectacle of myself in the park.”

“You’d do fine. Better than fine.” She points at the ball, “To be sure, three reps of ten.”

“My prowess isn’t what I’m worried about.” Not entirely. “I’m talking about the paparazzi. I’m the only one in the family they haven’t gotten a picture of since this all started. Someone would get a big, juicy paycheck for that snap.”

“You mean the incident with your son?” she asks, hands on hips in her usual gym coach stance. He really should have bought her a shiny whistle to wear in her new practice. Pearls would look out of place hanging around her thick neck, but the authority of the whistle would suit her.

“Precisely. This mess with the Starks is all consuming.”

She scowls and then taps the top of his prosthetic, when he stops mid repetition. “I feel sorry for that girl. I guess you know Sansa Stark.”

“A little bit. You’ve been following the story?” Brienne isn’t usually one for gossip.

“Unfortunately. I helped her mother a few years ago with a charity event Mrs. Stark chaired. Catelyn Stark is a good woman.”

Catelyn certainly is persistent. Despite refusing to come inside his loft, she wouldn’t leave his doorstep until he promised to do something to help Sansa out. Of course, since making the promise, he hasn’t done anything to follow through on it. Lethargy, apathy, something has made picking up the phone impossible. Who would he call anyway? It’s not really any of his business.

“It’s unfortunate,” Jaime says, looking out over her shoulder towards the glazed windows. “All I can tell you is I didn’t have anything to do with it. Whatever shitty things my son does are his business.”

“You think he’s the one causing all the trouble in the press for her then?”

“Probably.”

It’s more than he intended to say. Placing the ball back on the table, he vows to keep his lip good and buttoned for the rest of today’s session.

Brienne doesn’t seem to notice his failure to complete his reps before giving up, as she presses with a heavy frown, “It’s hard enough to be that girl’s age without having the whole city judging you and watching your every move. People were always judging me. I hated it. I wasn’t pretty enough for the boys or girly enough for the girls. Never fit in.”

“I don’t think that’s Sansa’s problem.”

Sansa’s beauty isn’t of the unassuming, hidden sort like Brienne’s. You don’t have to wait to see her in the right light to appreciate her. He doesn’t know and doesn’t care anything about the claims they've floated about her sleeping with that gloomy faced Jon Snow or the short guy that’s probably going to be canned from his university for fucking coeds, but he doubts Joff is the only boy to have ever found her attractive. Sansa’s not Jaime’s type, but that doesn’t keep him from seeing what’s plain as day: Sansa Stark is an incredibly beautiful young woman.

Not so much of a shrew as to prevent her from having female friends either. Cersei has 'girlfriends,' but Jaime assumes none of them have any real affection for her. They’re just there to suck at the Lannister-Baratheon teat. If her ship sinks with this Baratheon Industries financial fuck up, they’ll jump to be free of her like a bunch of scrambling rats.

“No, her problem is the media and their love of cooked up scandal.”

“Her first and most lasting problem is Joffrey.”

“I’m sorry, but who would do something like that? Go to the press about your ex-girlfriend.”

“You have no idea.” His son is a little monster, pushing around girls. Sometimes Jaime doesn’t even know where he came from.

“I wish there was something I could do to help them out.”

“There's nothing you can do,” he assures her.

“You’d do something if you could, wouldn’t you? Any decent person would. Poor girl.”

His phone chimes and the lock screen lights up with a new text. They both stare down at it, though the screen goes black too quickly for him to see who sent him the message. There’s a printout sign at the entrance to Blackwater Rehab that says all phones should be turned off. Brienne used to ask him to keep his in a locker until she realized it was a battle she would never win and her efforts were better directed at his rehab. He usually turns off the ringer though and simply forgot in her urgency to get him down to business.

Ignoring it would be the right thing to do, but he doesn’t like the turn the conversation has taken. It makes him feel the full weight of the unfulfilled promise he made to Catelyn. Brienne wouldn't like knowing he's the kind of man who would stand by and do nothing while an innocent girl is publicly maligned. Jaime stepped in to defend her the once. He likes the idea of defending her again, but the reality of what repercussions that would have is unpleasant. Which makes him a selfish, shitty person, as useless as the public think he is.

He would prefer to congratulate himself on sending Brienne off with an apartment full of new therapy gear and maybe keep working on his dexterity for another uninterrupted thirty minutes. That’s what he comes here for. Jaime can handle lectures in the laxity of his practicing, but Brienne unintentionally shaming him is something he's unprepared for.

“Sorry. I’m expecting a message,” he breezily lies.

No one calls or texts him anymore. His father was never one for phones. The kids never call. That he's accustomed to. But Tyrion isn’t speaking to him either. He's fine with that for the moment, because he doesn’t want to talk to his brother at the moment. If he did, he would probably tell Tyrion exactly where to go. And Cersei? Cersei is obviously too busy fucking anything with a dick and two good hands to bother with a cripple.

He swipes the screen and inputs his password with his thumb. Until a couple of months ago even that pathetic task was tricky to complete with his left hand.

Cersei Lannister 1m ago. Jaime's tongue pokes in the side of his cheek as he waffles on whether to open this first correspondence from her in months.

_That nasty brother of yours is going to talk to the press, Jaime. About our boy._

_You have to help me. Come to the house._

_I need you._

_I love you._

He swallows thickly, reading the summons twice. His thumb hovers over the thread. One press to the first blue bubble brings up more options and then blank, taunting bullets. He ticks them off one after another.

Delete. Delete. Delete. Delete.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm feeling über eager knowing what's ahead!  
> Sansa  
> Dany  
> Ned  
> Tyrion  
> Jaime  
> OUTTAKE: Jon's room  
> Jon  
> OUTTAKE: Michigan  
> Sansa  
> And that will be it! I can't believe it.


	42. Sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa has high hopes for her conversation with her father.

Chapter Forty-One: Sansa

Sansa knocks at her father’s office door with a hooked index finger. The door is ajar and peeking around it, she can see her father sitting at his desk. It might be the weekend and her father might be out of a job, but he’s still toiling over something. Something that is unpleasant enough that is causes a multiplication of lines on his face that she can see outlined by the sunshine pouring through the window. With his shoulders hunched forward and his brow furrowed, he looks more weighed down by cares than he allows himself to appear in front of the family.

Both her father and mother are trying to put on a good face, especially in front of the children. They might be fooling her little brothers, but Sansa can read the anger and disappointment and worry in their tight smiles and short words. She’s not the only one that sees through the thin veil of their resolve to hold it together. Other than to say thank you or please, Jon will barely hazard to speak in front of them. He knows how unhappy they are with him, and when Sansa forgets, he reminds her. It has kept both of them out of further trouble.

Her father looks up from his desk, and his hands curl back into loose fists, as he straightens in his plaid armchair. Drawing himself together in a subtle alteration of his strong frame banishes the vulnerability. Both her parents are strong people, but the past few months—years—have tested them all, wearing them down and leaving their mark. The evidence is there on his face and in the grey in his hair. Without meaning to, Sansa put her share of silvery strands there.

“I made you a sandwich,” she says, as she lifts up one of her mother's luncheon plates in offering. “If you’re hungry.”

“I am. Thank you.”

Her chats with her parents have been fraught with tension ever since Jon’s confession. She’s either explaining her actions or assuring them she’s not falling apart and either way it’s exhausting. They’re probably all tired of it. She’s hoping today will be different, counting on it really, but she hesitates at the door, remembering other conversations that led nowhere.

“Come on in, honey,” he says, waving her in.

She smiles at the welcome endearment, and she hurries forward with her handiwork. “Turkey,” she says brightly. “With tomato, basil, and mayo.”

“My favorite.”

Sansa knows everyone’s favorite lunches. Since she took over making lunch, she’s been careful to rotate through each of them. Her father is a classic in every way. Right down to his choice of sandwich. A turkey man. He always orders the club sandwich when their in Michigan and eat lunch at the White Harbor Boat Club. Her mother likes chicken salad on a pretzel roll with thick cucumber slices. Rickon is simple: PB&J, white bread, no crust, and ants on a log, heavy on the peanut butter. Bran would eat a ham and cheese sandwich every day if he could. Arya used to want roast beef and horseradish cream sauce, but now she’s on a tuna melt kick. On Arya’s days Sansa has to make something different for the boys, who turn their noses up at fish.

Even when she has to make an alternate meal for the boys, it’s a little thing she can do to improve someone’s day and a gesture of reconciliation. Considering how much Sansa’s choices have upended their lives, she owes it to them. Especially her mother, who’s busier than ever. By taking the hassle of lunch off her mother’s plate, Mama can concentrate on keeping the boys up to date on their school work, while they’re prisoners in their own home.

It isn’t everyday that Sansa gets to deliver these lunches in person. Five days out of the week she makes them up before she heads off to the magazine’s offices with paparazzi following close behind, shouting at her as she steps in and out of her father’s limo. They ask questions about Joff and Jon and Dean Baelish, who Boston College has asked to resign for violating conduct codes. They ask her for a reaction. They ask her for more details. They ask for a wave from her like she's on the red carpet. One guy always wants to know what she's wearing. It’s only on the weekends that she avoids the unwanted spotlight. Instead, she gets to see one of her siblings maybe crack a smile, when she sets their favorite lunch before them with a _bon appétit_. It’s a much better view than a bank of cameras aimed by men paid to taunt her into some unflattering response.

One smile is easier than the others to earn. Jon will eat anything, though she suspects he’s as excited as Rickon when he finds a plate full of raisins stuck in creamy peanut butter with his name on it. While he’s no master chef, Jon insists he managed perfectly well before Sansa took to making lunch. He never went hungry, he scraped something together for himself. He could still manage, but Sansa makes sure there’s always something waiting for him in the fridge. It makes her happy to think about him eating it, while she’s at work.

She’d go a step further and leave a sappy note for him tucked in the saran wrap, but the threat of her mother finding it stills Sansa’s hand every morning. The last thing she wants to do is antagonize her mother over love notes. Already they watch her and Jon like hawks. It makes it almost impossible to find time alone.

Almost. People have to sleep sometimes.

Sansa can’t help smiling to herself, as her wooden heeled, yellow clogs clack over the polished tile floor of her father’s office. Nights spent with Jon are worth the loss of sleep. God. It’s better every time, she swears, though she would be ashamed to admit it aloud after all the pain their relationship has caused their loved ones. Jon’s ashamed too, but he wears his shame like a shroud that she has to peel off along with his t-shirt until he gives in and his kisses turn hungry. Tuesday she had to wear a classic red lip to hide the tiny dark bloom that the paparazzi would have been thrilled to catch a shot of.

“Can I sit with you, while you eat, Daddy?” she asks, as her father takes the plate and gives her a tired smile.

“Of course.”

“You don’t mind?” she asks even as she smoothes her skirts underneath herself to perch on the edge of the sofa cushion.

“Not at all.”

No matter what she’s done, her family loves her. But loving her doesn’t prevent them from being angry with her. Jon has been singled out by her mother as the one to blame for everything, but her father and sister are equally upset with Jon and Sansa. Not fun, but at least it’s fair.

“I don’t want to interrupt.”

“You're never an interruption. It's perfect timing,” he says, pushing aside the papers to make room for the plate. “My mind doesn’t work too well on an empty stomach.”

“Mama says nobody’s brain works the way it should without proper nutrition.” That’s why Mama made them scrambled eggs on important test days. Plenty of protein to get those neurons firing away.

“You’re mother’s right. You’ve eaten?” he asks before taking a bite.

He’s not the only one to check in about her eating. As the papers and blogs have revealed fresh details about her life, shaming her publicly for past mistakes and present day choices, her mother has kept an eye on Sansa’s plate at breakfast and dinner. Jon’s got lunch covered: he texts her a reminder to get something to eat almost every day, after thanking her for the lunch she’s left for him. Neither of them are particularly subtle about it.

When Robb died and her life was in a tailspin with school and friends falling to the wayside, food was something she could control. She played it off as sadness, but it was more than that.

This time is different somehow. Life isn’t easier, life is still hard, but her coping mechanisms have changed. It’s like she watches the paparazzi and listens to her mother’s panicked questioning through an underwater haze. She’s in a bubble with only room for two. The photogs can scream at her, the media can print filthy lies and damning truths, but Jon still loves her. He’s strong and good, and with him loving her, everything is going to be okay.

It has to be.

“Yeah. I ate with the boys.”

“Good,” he mumbles around a bite, speaking with his mouth full the way Mama doesn’t like. “’s delicious.”

It might just be a sandwich, but the unfurling pleasure of a compliment from her father makes it feel like more. “Thank you.”

He brushes a fallen crumb away from his papers, drawing Sansa’s eyes to the formal header that tops the first sheet. “What are you’re working on?”

“Legal papers,” he says after a monstrous swallow.

“For Jon?”

He glances at the papers. “Yes, for Jon.”

Her heart skips and part of her wishes she hadn't asked. The only thing wrong with the nights they steal are when Jon insists on talking about his legal situation. It’s an unwanted intrusion into the hazy world she’s floating through. Her bubble is a happy place, but it’s not impenetrable. She wants to be supportive and listen to his fears, but that’s one subject she can’t rationally entertain. Her father’s words have the same effect now, popping the glossy aura, stripping her day of the illusion of hopefulness.

What she wants is to banish the possibility of jail time to the furthest corner of her mind. Sansa can’t allow herself to believe that anything bad will happen to Jon. Not after everything they’ve been through as a family. Not after she and Jon already wasted so much time being apart. It would be too much to deal with. The lawyers have to save him.

“What do the lawyers say?”

Her father puts down the crusty corner of what’s left of the first half of the sandwich and wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. Her father and Jon aren’t blood relations, but they eat the same way, as if the food will disappear if they don’t eat it fast enough.

“It’s serious. There’s a solid case against him. He could go to jail. I’m telling you this, because you need to come to terms with that possibility.”

She shrugs in a flippant gesture, pushing away his seriousness with the forced brightness of her tone. “No. You won’t let that happen.”

“It’s not up to me.”

Though she likes to think of herself as grown, it wasn’t so long ago that she believed her father could fix anything. Even a kiss to the forehead cured the worst scrape. So long as he wasn’t in Washington, he used to do a sweep of her and Arya’s room before bedtime, peeking behind curtains and under beds, ready to vanquish whatever lurked in dark corners, banishing imagined monsters with his reassuring presence.

“But I’m trying,” he adds. “And the lawyers are working hard.”

“They’re the best?” she asks, grabbing for a throw pillow tucked alongside the sofa's arm to press to her middle.

Jon can’t afford to go to prison. How would it affect his PTSD? She hasn’t allowed herself to imagine it, but the image of him in a jumpsuit comes surprisingly easily out of the corner of her mind’s view, his face sallow and his hands shaking the way they do when he’s losing his grip. It wouldn’t be good. That’s no place for him. He’s the last person who deserves to be locked up with thieves, rapists, and murderers.

Even after completing a prison stint, it would affect the rest of his life. Her Jon an ex-con. That’s a label you don’t escape, whether you’re former Senator Ned Stark’s boy or not. And all because he was defending Sansa from her own terrible choices.

“Jon will get a good defense. None of us want to see him go to jail.”

“Mama does.”

He raises his fist to his mouth and coughs with raised brows. “The judge won’t be asking your mother’s opinion.”

Sansa huffs out a laugh. “Mama thinks I’m a little girl. Seduced and used. That’s not the case.”

When you come to the realization that you’ve been used, your stomach swoops and sours. You want to hide from the shame that looms over you like a ominous shadow. It comes to her, the memory of the dean saying her mother’s name, the way she doesn’t allow the memory space, while she’s hurrying away from the shouts of the paparazzi. The feeling of being damaged, used goods crawls along her skin, and her hand darts up to toy with her slick ponytail, flipping it over her shoulder. The only time she called into work sick was the day the news about Dean Baelish was leaked, and then she spent the day wishing she'd gone in. Her father looked so furious. All clenched teeth and flushed face, holding on to his silverware like he was ready to knife someone with the butter knife. God knows how Mama explained to him that she already knew and didn't tell. That must have been an unpleasant conversation.

“But you’re _our_ little girl, and you’ve been through a lot.”

Sansa doesn’t give in to the petulant eye roll that threatens to undo her efforts at conciliation. She _has_ been through a lot and she hasn’t always been the best judge of character, but her father knows Jon and Jon would never take advantage of a girl. “Jon makes me happy.”

“I can see that, I can, but it’s a difficult situation. We don’t need to go into Jon’s place in this family again, do we?”

“No,” Sansa retorts more sharply than she should.

Their position on that was made amply clear right from the start. Forewarned via text from Jon, she came home to face her parents. They sat side by side, Jon white knuckled beside her, and they listened to all the reasons why they could not be. With somewhat varying degrees of vehemence, her parents insisted they couldn’t be romantically involved, because of who Jon is supposed to be to her.

Brother and son—that’s what he is to the rest of them. They can all go on thinking of Jon in those terms. She wants them too, because Jon needs family as much as Sansa needs Jon. But they can’t expect her to give him up for the sake of the status quo. It’s too late for that anyway: she and Jon can’t go back to being what they were before and no one would believe it if they tried.

Her father glances towards the window. If either one of them stood before it, there would be someone below ready to catch a shot of an elusive Stark. The tabloids won't always be interested in this story, and when they stop paying, the paps will disappear. Still, there will always be talk and people ready to gawk. Some people will insist on calling them siblings and they'll have read or heard plenty of evidence to suggest they're right. Some of the nastiest stories claim that Jon is her father’s biological son, making them real siblings. After headlines about incest, Jon’s lawyers could ensure he goes free and there would still be people who whisper behind their backs for the rest of their lives.

“Your mother isn’t happy you two were sneaking around behind our backs. Frankly, neither am I.”

“I’m the one that convinced Jon not to tell.” Her father’s mouth purses. No one likes to discuss the details of their relationship. Anytime the topic comes up, the room goes uncomfortably still and faces twist. “Tell Mama to be mad at me.”

“You’re going to have to give your mother some time. There's no blueprint for how to handle our daughter and your brother, your,” he fumbles and finally gives up with a grimace. “Regardless, we’re not going to stay mad forever.”

“Arya might.”

Sansa is accustomed to being at odds with Arya, but Jon isn’t. Nothing Jon says to her sister makes it better. He’s tried. They've had a half dozen, awkward, one sided conversations in which Jon tries to explain and get her to tell him what he can do to make it better. Something other than _don't sleep with my sister_. He could talk until he’s blue in the face and all she’d give him is that same betrayed look. Sansa knows he can barely stand to labor under it.

It made Sansa wonder, but she only asked once. Was it too much? Did their relationship create too much trouble? Had it become one burden too many? Curled up in his lap with the rest of the house asleep, she asked him to tell her the truth.

_Do you wish we hadn’t?_

_Never_. _You're the only good thing I've got._

Any time things get her, she remembers how sure he sounded. Anytime the shouts of the paparazzi threaten to shake her or someone helpfully sends her a link to a new, disgusting article about her, she thinks of his grey eyes staring back at her and the way he pulled her in tight and she feels stronger for it.

She knew Jon was brave like Daddy and Robb. They served their country, they fought, and each of them paid a price for that service. It's the kind of bravery most people recognize. But this is brave too. Especially when her father, the man Jon respects most, disagrees with Jon’s choice. That she’s making the courageous choice helps her keep her head held high, helps her have a kind word for everyone on her toughest day. The world wants her to be ashamed, and while she isn’t happy with the fallout, she has reason to be proud of herself too.

Her father slumps into the high back of his chair. “Teenagers have an almost limitless ability to hold grudges.”

It took her and Jon time to come to terms with their feelings for each other. They have to give everyone else time to catch up. Maybe Arya will understand someday and they can be better sisters for it. If they’re lucky Sansa won’t have to outwait Arya’s teen years. The boys are young. There’s hope there. Sansa even has reason to think her father could come to feel differently about them. If she didn't, she wouldn't have braved this conversation with it. It’s something in the way his eyes soften, when he thinks Jon and Sansa don’t notice him watching them. Even that first day, her father didn’t speak in absolutes the way her mother did, opening the door just a crack for a future where he would recognize their relationship.

“If Jon wasn’t in this legal _situation_ ,” she says, referring euphemistically to the court case, “would you feel differently about us?”

Reaching out to nudge away the remains of his lunch, her father sighs. “Jon isn’t well, honey.”

“He’s getting better.”

“He was. I don’t know about that anymore.” Her father tilts his head down, as he looks over at her with a heavy frown that makes her squeeze the pillow. “There was the fight…”

“That was my fault,” she cuts in and his frown goes from his too familiar look of concern to something more disagreeable.

“You shouldn’t be making excuses for him.” She can feel her cheeks heat, as her father scrubs his face with his hand. “Jon wouldn’t like to hear you talking that way. However we might feel about you two, I know he doesn’t want you blaming yourself for his mistakes. Hitting Joff might have felt good, but it was a mistake.”

She isn't certain it did feel good. Not for Jon at least. It didn't look like it felt good. She's not sure he felt anything during that whole episode, which is probably her father's point. Jon's not as well as she'd like to pretend.

“I didn’t mean it that way,” she lies, because she did mean it and her father's right. Probably about a bunch of things she's not ready to admit.

“Good, because he’s a grown man, who has to be responsible for his own behavior. I get the feeling that’s about all he can handle right now.”

Critique of Jon’s health sets Sansa on edge. Digging her fingers into the down filled pillow, she tries to process her father’s words, while he holds her gaze. If Jon’s been having trouble lately, keeping to his room and not sleeping like he should, it’s not hard to see why. That's all it is, and when the craziness passes, he'll be better. “This whole media frenzy and you all being upset with us—rightfully,” she says, holding up her hand, “has been hard on Jon. But I can help him.”

“I’m sure you could, honey, but you shouldn’t have to. Jon's the one that has to do the work.”

Sansa blinks up at the ceiling, trying to fight back a well of emotions that threaten to overwhelm her, as her father leans forward, stretching out his hand to touch her shoulder. He's trying to comfort her, but his touch and the way his mouth tugs down at the corners makes her shimmery walls feel way too thin. “Being in a relationship isn’t the right thing for either of you. You should be focused on your job. Jon should be focused on himself. Romances can wait.”

Sansa spent the morning imagining how this conversation with her father might go, romanticized his reaction to her levelheaded explanations and mature apologies until she was convinced of the outcome. She didn’t tell Jon she was going to talk to Daddy. He wouldn’t have been as optimistic as her. She didn’t want to allow any negativity inside her bubble, but Jon would have been right to preach caution.

With her chest tightening, she stands, letting his hand fall back into his lap. A lump in her throat makes a weird, twitchy smile all the goodbye she can manage, as she tosses the pillow down. She takes three quick steps towards the door, when he calls her name, stopping her flight.

“He’s an honorable young man, I've always been proud to call him mine, and under different circumstances, I’d be happy for you to be with someone like him.”

There's one part of that statement Sansa can't take any comfort in: someone like Jon. Not Jon. Just someone like him.

Her father might envision a future for her, where she’s happy with someone _like_ Jon. Someone who would be good to her, love her, and support her. But Jon’s the one. If she expects her family to understand that, she needs to start by acknowledging the pain they've caused. Really acknowledge it. It's the grown up thing to do.

Despite the tears burning behind her lids, she turns to face her father. “We knew it wouldn’t be easy, but it’s worse than either of us thought. This whole mess... It's not what we wanted.”

“I know.”

Sansa takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I’m sorry I ruined your career, Daddy.”

He cocks his head, braces his hands on the arms of the chair, and shakes his head slowly. “Sansa, you didn’t ruin my career.”

“I did,” she says, bringing her hand up to cover her mouth. Tears will make this about her. Tears request sympathy. Everything is not about her and Jon, although new love in its all encompassing wonderfulness sometimes makes it feel that way. This is about her father, who had to give up his job, about her siblings, who weren't able to finish the school year out, and about her mother, who has had to devote all her time to teaching two boys.

Her father stands and moves to come towards her, arms outstretched. His touch doesn't make her weak, but it does bring it all down with a crash. The reality she's held off slams into her, as she slumps into his chest. She has Jon, but that hasn't solved everything. Far from it. She's ruined her family's life, and for what? She still stands to lose him. Assault with intent to injure usually carries the maximum sentence—a year. In one of her weaker moments, she googled that happy little factoid. Time off for good behavior or prison crowding or whatever could shorten the sentence, but even six months or so would be long enough to make everything that much worse.

He pats her back, as her selfish tears wet his shirt. He resigned to try to stop all the attention that was directed at them, and it didn't even work. It was a tactic admission of his own inability to regulate his family, a blow to his pride. He gave up everything to try to make things better for his family, and yet the buzzards are still circling, waiting to pick their bones clean with a well timed photo.

“I resigned because it’s what the party wanted,” he says, stroking her hair. “I’d become a distraction. I wasn’t going to be able to do any good anymore.”

“We were the distraction,” she says, pushing back to look at him. He should tower above her—that's how it was when she was little and he could save the day—but in her heels, they're nearly eye to eye. “I’ve been trying to be happy. That's what I've been focused on, and I haven’t properly apologized, but if it wasn’t for us, you’d still be working hard in Washington.”

“Don’t,” her father says. “Please, honey. There are people to blame, but you’re not one of them.”

“You have to understand,” she says, wiping at her nose. Her words run ahead of her, not allowing her time to think, to phrase things the way she should. “I can’t make it better by giving up on Jon. I won’t give up on him even if he has to go to jail. I just can't. I won't. I love him and he loves me. But I feel guilty about what it’s done to everyone and I need everyone to know that. I do feel sorry. I do. And all I can do is make these dumb sandwiches.”

“Okay,” he says, pulling her back in, and for a moment she allows herself to close her eyes and pretend she's five again, when this hug would have been the end of all her worries. “Okay.”


	43. Dany

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dany has kept her suspicions about what happened to her at the Night's Watch to herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for Dany's near miss situation from the Night's Watch

Chapter Forty-Two: Dany

The desire to temporarily lead a low profile life isn’t an excuse for complete disengagement from the things that really matter. Which is why Dany has perfected the art of conducting most of her business from her bed. With a wealth of fluffed pillows tucked behind her back and a bowl of grapes beside her, she can indulge in comfort and the blessings of privacy. No one can see that she’s still in her silk pajamas, while she sits in front of a muted television, laptop whirring in her lap and phone chiming every few seconds by her thigh. From this safe cocoon, she can still make the necessary calls to her various charities and send e-mails to all her regular contacts, asking for more money to conquer poverty or prostitution or whatever the day’s focus is, and she doesn’t have to face anyone while doing it.

Years ago, Dany was forced to come to terms with the cost of living a public life. There is no retreating from her responsibilities. This reprieve can’t stretch on forever, but it feels necessary for now. Ever since she was carried out of the Night’s Watch, she’s been hyper aware of how precarious her position in this fishbowl of a city is, how the press she courted could turn against her with one misstep. If she tumbles publicly, so too do all the people that rely on her, when donations dry up and supporters back out, scrambling to disassociate themselves from a fallen socialite.

She was spared the full glare of the media, despite there being photographs—both high def professional ones and amateur iPhone pics—of her draped over Jorah Mormont’s arms with her mouth hanging inelegantly open. Any other week and her story would have repeated on an endless loop, but it didn’t play out that way. Her seemingly public slip was overshadowed by another Night’s Watch patron’s actions. After Jorah came for her that evening, Joffrey got what was coming to him at the hands of one of the Starks. The eldest one, who is sleeping with his sister.

Dany can’t be bothered to keep it all straight, since it was only the first of several juicy stories that emerged about the Starks family over the past few weeks. While she’s sorry to see the media yet again focusing on the so called sins of the woman in this scenario, instead of the men, who are obviously to blame, the timing certainly spared Dany the potentially damning consequences of a scandal. Spared her and more importantly, the people that count on her.

The feeling of having narrowly escaped kept her from calling the police. There wasn’t any real proof that Joff had put something in her drink. No blood draw, no random bottle of pills, no witness. Maybe if she’d gone to the ER, but she hadn’t. She’d gone home, been tucked into her bed unconscious, and then spent the next day with all the drapes pulled shut and a bucket by her bed, feeling like she had the worst hangover of her life.

It was too late. Besides, an investigation would have shined light on a night she would rather forget. Don’t look back—that’s been her motto for years. She’s been determined to focus on the positive things accomplished daily from this king sized bed instead, while contenting herself to imagine the pain Joffrey must have been in after the fight. More pain than even she felt, curled up on her side with her head thumping. The coward didn’t get one swing in, being more familiar at preying on women than facing off against another man. Not that the press framed it that way. The Lannisters probably saw to it that the salacious story skewed in their favor, depicting Joffrey as the innocent victim of an out of control, violent thug. The Lannisters fought dirty. They could probably find a way to turn the whole thing around on her too. There are a lot of reasons a woman fails to come forward, Dany is coming to realize. The press forgot about her role in that bizarre night, and to dredge it up again without proper evidence would be chancy.

Part of the forgetting means forgetting about Jorah too, which is more difficult this time around. Having her brother followed was wrong. Jorah was meddling in her family’s business in a way he was not entitled. It was obsessive and high handed. She’d trusted him and he went behind her back in a creepy way she’ll never understand. Cutting him out of her life was the right thing to do.

At least the first time. This time she’s not as sure. It's possible he learned his lesson, possible she might be better off forgiving him.

A quick check of her call log backed up his story. Jorah claims he got a call from her that night. _A troubling call_. No matter what he shouted into the phone, there was no response. Only the sound of music thumping and faint rustling noises. That sounds like a misdial to Dany, as opposed to a frantic call for help. Of course, calling him by accident could be the kind of portent Quaithe is always advising her about. Even if it was a stupid misdial and not the hand of fate moving to ensure her rescue, even if in her moment of diminishing faculties he wasn’t the one she called on, he saved her. He was concerned enough about the unexpected and odd call from her to come to her rescue. That concern probably saved her from a nasty outcome to her ill-advised meet up with Joffrey.

Then again, the fact that Jorah knew where to find her after receiving the equivalent of a late night butt dial was unnerving. Unless he was still skulking around after her and her brother, there was no way he could have known where to find her, since she didn’t tweet about it or post any pictures to her instagram account, while she sat in the VIP area and counted down the minutes until she could leave. With that unsettling detail in mind, ending the acquaintance is the safe choice.

She still hasn’t stopped second guessing herself over cutting him off though. She left the door open a crack by not blocking his number, and while he hasn’t contacted her since their terse exchange the day after, there’s nothing to prevent him from reaching her and nothing to prevent her from seeing the notification of his text. The flash appears on her lock screen, drawing her eye away from her laptop, where she’s composing an e-mail to Hizdahr zo Loraq, who she intends on making the director of the girls school she’s establishing in her name in the now empty shell of a factory, where those girls used to make tennis shoes.

Her phone lights up again, flashing his text across her screen once more.

 _Turn on Fox 5_. _You’ll want to see what’s on at six._

Local news is either depressing or stupid. Dany can’t imagine what she would want to see on Fox 5 that she can’t more easily consume via a news update on her phone.

_They’ve been teasing it all afternoon._

“Teasing what?” she asks her empty room, as she lifts the phone off the russet colored bed throw bunched at her side.

She glances from the lock screen to her muted television hanging on the wall before her. Netflix asked her one too many times if she was still watching _The Borgias_ , which is why she switched to cable an hour ago. Much less judgmental a service. Much less likely to make a person feel like there is something wrong with you for wanting to spend an afternoon cheering on an incestuous family.

She pats the bed, searching blindly for the lost remote in the white sheets. Her fingers bump the cold of the black plastic and chucking aside her phone, she switches the remote into her right hand, aiming it up to switch stations.

“Fine. Fox News at six it is,” she says, though she doesn’t bother to unmute the program, letting the station logo flash on the screen and the male, female anchor team blab in silence through the opening.

Five minutes of her time is all this new show is going to get before she switches back to the string of _Golden Girls_ reruns that have her craving cheesecake. It doesn't take but a second to grab her attention, however, when Tyrion Lannister appears on the screen with a mic stuck in his rude face. The scroll at the bottom says, “Tyrion Lannister, Joffrey Lannister’s uncle adds fuel to the fire.”

Her thumb slips in her hurry to depress the mute button, managing only to switch stations, and when she gets back to the right station and makes the sound come blaring through, Tyrion is halfway through whatever statement he made to the press.

“…that’s only part of his history with Sansa Stark. There’s more to it as you, I’m sorry to report.” He doesn't look sorry. His brow arches and he keeps bringing his hand up to his mouth, as if he's covering it up, while he speaks, partly muffling his statement. “He’s got a real violent streak, and he’s a young man that needs help. Help he won’t get unless the truth is brought forward.”

“Shit,” Dany hisses, helplessly trying to rewind, but having inadvertently changed the channel, whatever Tyrion said prior is lost, and all that she gets is Tyrion’s fidgety movements and the dull thudding noise of her DVR backing up to its furthest point ten seconds earlier, when she hits the reverse button.

“Cersei and Joffrey Lannister couldn’t be reached for comment. Robert Baratheon, the young man’s stepfather can be seen here leaving Baratheon Industries earlier this afternoon,” the male anchor says, as a shot of the bulky Baratheon magnate holding up a blurred out hand appears in the corner of the screen. “He declined to speak with our news team. But with Joffrey’s father, Jaime Lannister corroborating Tyrion's shocking account, this story has suddenly become much more complicated.”

“There could be new charges on the horizon in the unfolding case in addition to the ones already brought against Jon Snow, former Senator Stark's son,” the woman says, her peachy lips curling into a slow smile like she can’t help feeling gleeful about bad news about a Lannister.

Join the club. Dany’s lips tip up too.

“No one likes to hear about an alleged case of domestic violence,” the male anchor adds. Belying his supposed displeasure, he changes the topic with a chipper smile that makes Dany toss the remote down the length of the bed.

“What the hell was that about?” Dany demands, snatching up her phone.

Unlocking it, she opens up the one-sided text conversation Jorah was having with her, allowing him into her life if only for the moment, so she might know what it is Joffrey did. After she hears what he has to say, she'll worry about whether he deserves to be forgiven.

_I missed half of it. What abuse? Who did he abuse?_

_Stark girl. Susan? Shoved her around in a club. Shouted at her._

_At the Night’s Watch?_

_No. Before that. But that isn’t the point._

Dany rolls her eyes. How could seeing who else suffered at Joffrey’s hands not be the point?

_I wanted you to see what your brother was setting you up for. He knew._

Dany frowns, her fingers hovering over the ‘f’ key to tell him exactly what she thinks of him. Instead, her fingers fly over the screen, angrily tapping away something a little less vulgar, forcing autocorrect to make sense of her inaccuracy.

_My brother again?_

_I doubt he ever met Sansa Stark. It’d be news to him too if that troll abused her. You’re reaching._

_Let it go._

_I can’t._

_Your brother knew that boy would put something in your drink, because he is the one who gave Joff the drugs._

Dany stares down at the phone, rereading Jorah's accusation, her eyes darting over the text, convinced she has misunderstood. Two minutes pass, two minutes where nothing but a bouncing ellipsis must greet Jorah on the other end. In that space, her fury drains from her and something icier takes its place.

_And you’re just mentioning this now?_

_It didn't seem important at the time. A drug exchange. Your brother does a lot of shady stuff. I didn’t know what they were for._

_But I got worried, after that call from you._

_You don’t respond well when it comes to your brother. Can you blame me?_

Dany snaps her sleeping laptop closed with her left hand and shoves it off her lap into the rumpled sheets. Exiting the conversation with Jorah, she pulls up her favorite contacts and selects the sneering face with white blond hair that peers out at her from a round bubble. She asked for a smile, when she took this picture, and this is what she got instead. Her brother never lives up to her expectations, big or small, but this is next level. The idea that he would pimp her out to Joffrey Lannister and aid him in securing her in the grossest fashion makes her blood pound in her temples. It makes her want to toss her laptop from the high perch of her bed to the Oriental rug below. It makes her want to scream until she doesn’t have a voice left. It makes her want to weep.

It should be unthinkable, but the pieces feel like they’re sliding into place. Jorah's accusation makes sense of a situation that never felt right. Her brother played matchmaker for her with one of the wealthiest and most well placed heirs in the city, when he knew she wouldn’t like Joffrey and it would come to nothing. Even after agreeing to drinks, Viserys had to figure she’d refuse to see the Lannister boy again and that would be the end of his hopes to leverage whatever power Joffrey has for his own interests. Her brother had to stand to benefit from just that one date, knowing that is all it would ever amount to: one date is all Joff would have needed if what Jorah says is true.

It’s a vile accusation. For Viserys to fix them up and provide Joffrey with date rape drugs, Joffrey had to promise Viserys something considerable. Money, no doubt, given Viserys’ problems. There’s a horrifying moment, where Dany wishes she knew how much, hopes even that it was a lot to make it worth it. How little was her safety worth to her brother? How much did he sell her for?

She’s been ignoring her brother’s request for an advance on his monthly check. It's come earlier than usual. They’re only a few days into the new month, but his voicemails have sounded as desperate as his end of the months calls typically do, which is probably why he picks up on the second ring. He’s not typically so quick to answer her, preferring to make her play a game of phone tag, placing her in the role of supplicant, when he’s the one in need.

“Joffrey Lannister drugged me when we were at the Night’s Watch,” she loudly says without introduction, after he answers with a lazy ‘hey’ she can barely hear over the background noise on his end.

Catching him off guard, she’s hoping for a good dose of shock and outrage. That would be the appropriate reaction of a brother, hearing news like this. What she gets is something short of that.

“Uh, excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

There’s a sound on the other end like a door slamming and whatever noise she initially heard on his end disappears. “And you call me the paranoid one.”

“That’s all you have to say?”

“No. I would like to add that you’re off your rocker.”

“Nice.”

“Look, don't play the victim with me. We talked after that night and you said you were fine. What do you expect my reaction to be when you come back a month later with this ridiculous tale?”

“Concern for your sister’s well being?” If Jorah could work up some concern for a woman who had scorned him repeatedly, couldn’t her brother dredge up a modicum of worry?

“Oh, you’re fucking fine. Jesus, Dany. Stop being so dramatic. Are you on your period or something? You were never like this when we were kids.”

A shiver wracks her body. No, she was much more manageable, much less capable of thinking for herself than she is now, which is probably why he hasn't really liked her since then. He doesn't want a sister: he wants a puppet with handy strings to pull and too many times she's danced for him. “I would have never had that drink if it wasn’t for you insisting that I meet up with him.”

“And you fucked it all up by getting trashed.”

“More like dodged a bullet. I had one lousy shot.” At least that’s all she remembers. It could have been more, but if it was, the memory was erased by whatever he slipped her. “I hardly think that counts as getting wasted.”

“You also left with that goddamn stalker. Another thing you didn’t think to mention when we talked after your date. Let me guess. He convinced you that you were drugged? Stirring up trouble between us.”

“Don’t worry about Mr. Mormont.”

“I had to see that shit in the gossip blogs. Humiliating.”

The remote is too far away for her to reach. If it was closer, she’d chuck it at the television to shut it off. As it is, the news plays alongside their conversation, unhelpfully informing her on the weather for the upcoming weekend. It mocks her with a promise of sunshine, when a sorry certainty takes root that from this moment forward, her life will never be the same.

“I don’t tell you every detail of my life, Viserys. I can’t, because I can’t trust you.” Considering the type of people he hangs around, her brother could easily get his hands on those kinds of drugs. Those are the type of people she worries about showing up at her brownstone in the middle of the night to collect on some debt of her brother’s. She’s regularly woken from nightmares of hooded figures pointing guns in her face, demanding money, and the source of that anxiety has never been in doubt. It’s been a long time since Dany could trust him, but she never imagined it would be her brother that would be loading the gun.

“Whatever,” he says. “Just keep this to yourself, okay?”

Her eyes narrow, as his fear bleeds through the spit of his words, confirming who it is he worries about most. “You don’t think I ought to report the fact that I was slipped a date rape drug?”

“No, I don’t. I think that’s the stupidest idea you’ve ever had.”

“Why, Viserys?” she asks, batting at him over the phone like a cat with its prey.

“I shouldn’t have to explain to you what a colossally bad idea this is.”

He sputters and mutters an obscenity away from the speaker of his phone, and she listens, pulling her legs up to her chest with a detached kind of resolve. “Sorry. You’re going to have to.”

There were reasons she was reluctant to come forward, when she suspected Joffrey had put something in those shots he’d been so eager for her to try, but if he is innocent, what reason could Viserys have for wanting her to keep this a secret? Shouldn’t he want to protect her? To see someone who tried to hurt her face judgment?

There’s a pause, a silence Dany measures with every audible intake of breath Viserys makes, before he snaps. “You said you’d had too much to drink, which makes a lot more sense than Joffrey drugging you. I seriously doubt he needs to drug girls to get them to go home with him. Stick with that version of things, why don’t you?”

“But that’s not the truth,” Dany says, squeezing her legs. “He could do it to some other girl if I don’t speak out.”

“After all this time has passed and without a sliver of evidence? No one would believe you.”

“Wouldn’t they though? Might as well turn it over to the police, right? Who knows what they’ll uncover.”

“Your bleeding heart is going to get you in serious trouble.” It’s not a warning. It’s a threat that drips venom, but she doesn't feel its sting, because apparently, he's already done his worst and she survived. “Keep your mouth shut, Dany.”

She swallows and steels her voice to be cool and level, so as not to betray anything to him. “Thanks for the advice. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Damn right. And now that I’ve got you, let’s talk about that advance.”

“I can’t right now. I’ll have Uncle Barristan be in touch.”

She doesn’t wait for a response to her brush off. She pulls the phone away from her ear and taps the red symbol. Her home screen—a picture of the house she remembers from their childhood, the one with a red door, which she shared with the big brother she counted on for everything—appears, partly obscured by the clutter of apps. In the upper left hand corner is her messages app, toting a notification of a new, unread text. She hadn’t heard the chime. She couldn’t focus on anything other than the bark of her brother’s voice, the bite of anger that spoke of guilt, not love.

It is yet another text from Jorah. The question _—Did you call your brother?_ —was left nearly ten minutes ago.

She can’t bring herself to admit that she did, that she fears he’s right. That would take too much energy, and all of her energy has to be directed at taking action. She can’t let that fear fix her here in her bed forever. Better to focus on someone other than herself.

She paid only cursory attention to the Stark scandal. They always seemed to Dany to be in the pocket of big business, feeding the war machine through Congressional funding and votes for more war and less peace. There was no reason to shed a tear over their familial drama, while it played out in the press in ugly detail. Except for the girl. She felt sorry for Sansa Stark in the vague sisterhood sense. That feeling sharpens into something more personal, as she imagines Joffrey, her own attempted rapist, striking the Stark girl in public, shouting demeaning things at her with the intention of humiliating her. Sansa’s brother beating the crap out of Joffrey suddenly makes a great deal of sense. It was personal for him too. Instead of Jon, the former Senator’s eldest going to jail, it should be Joff. A tale of a scuffle between exes in a club isn’t going to do it.

_What proof do they have?_

A good chunk of time has passed, but Jorah's still there with a quick response,  _His father’s word. Jaime Lannister's account of that evening._

“Worthless,” Dany huffs.

_What proof do YOU have?_

_Photographs. Good ones. And an audio recording. You can only hear about a third of what your brother’s saying. The detective couldn’t get close enough._

Well, you get what you pay for. Viserys said the man was always in the same cheap suit, so you wouldn't expect him to have the best equipment. But it's something. Especially paired with the account of a media darling like herself, who is only known for doing good, who is a champion of the people. That settles it.

The word of family is damning. Who makes false, life changing accusations against their nephew or son? But both Tyrion and Jaime Lannister have potentially dubious motives and iffy track records that could call their claims into question. If one wasn’t divorced from the boy’s mother and the other a disgruntled former employee of Lannister Mercantile, their stories would bear more weight. The women of this world need something more, something from a disinterested party. Dany could be that person, and if Tyrion’s accusations started a fire in the Lannister camp, with Jorah’s help, Dany could turn his bonfire into a roaring blaze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fast update thanks to Wee Dram's big boy development--he naps in his crib now instead of asleep next to me on the sofa, where I couldn't move!


	44. Ned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It isn't what Ned expects to hear from Jon after the day's events.

Chapter Forty-Three: Ned

Ned doesn’t miss the little moments that pass between them, doesn’t miss the way they look at each other. On the whole, however, Jon and Sansa have been restrained in their affection in front of the family. After the reception they received, it could be self preservation on their part or maybe they’re as uncomfortable with the dynamic as the rest of them, but there’s nothing restrained today about Sansa’s greeting. When Jon comes through the vestibule, Ned barely gets the front door shut behind them before his daughter throws herself into Jon’s arms. That’s a photograph that would fetch a pretty penny.

Looking down at his shoes, Ned allows them their moment, pretending for the moment that he’s not there to give them their privacy. They’ve good reason to celebrate. This afternoon, a non-criminal resolution was reached in Jon’s assault case.

“Thank God,” Sansa says, pulling back to frame Jon’s freshly shaven face with her hands.

At least having to go to court has gotten the boy out of bed and showered and shaved. Ned can’t say much else in favor of its effects, however. Cat commented that he looked too skinny, and there’s been no cause to say that since the boys were teens and were bottomless pits that nearly ate them out of house and home.

“You okay?” Jon asks, sounding as confused as he did in the courthouse, when the lawyers explained the deal to them.

The exhaustion Ned feels is so extreme. Fighting this fight, feeling hopeless for so long, has left him more drained than any firefight ever did. He understands the boy’s slightly detached, bewildered behavior. The lawyers’ accepting a plea deal has been extreme emotional whiplash. Maybe tomorrow after a good night’s sleep untroubled by anxiety nightmares, they’ll shed the heavy shroud, but for now, Ned feels like Jon, when the plea deal was hammered out and he sunk his head onto the table before him, his suit coat bunching around his neck.

Sansa shakes her head, making her ponytail swing. “Me?”

“You were nervous.”

“No, I wasn’t. I knew you would be all right. I knew everything would turn out,” his daughter says, pressing a kiss to Jon’s lips that his wife interrupts from the kitchen doorway by loudly clearing her throat.

“Jon’s home. Daddy’s home,” Sansa needlessly announces, tossing a smile at her mother before turning to her father. “Thank you, Daddy.”

“I didn’t do anything, honey,” Ned says, as she leans across to kiss her father on the cheek, Jon’s hands still hovering somewhere near her hips, his mouth open, ready to contradict Ned’s assertion.

“You fixed everything,” Sansa babbles over them both with her gaze already fixed again on Jon, her cheeks pink and her smile bright enough to light up the room.

“I have to pay a fine,” Jon says, fingers flexing.

“A fine’s nothing.”

“Not quite nothing,” Ned says, setting his suitcase down on the marble floor.

The fine is large enough that Jon can’t afford it. Ned will pay it, happily, and Jon can pay him back when he gets a job. The debacle will end there. No community service, no payment of Joffrey’s non-existent medical bills. A fine is so much better than what Jon was facing just a few days ago before Ms. Targaryen’s claims became public.

“But an immense relief,” he adds, his back giving complaint, when he straightens up.

Those claims apparently made the Lannister’s lawyers much less certain of a victory. Suddenly they were open to settling, when they were informed an account of abuse beyond what was swirling in the gossip columns was going to be introduced as evidence if the trial moved forward. Circumstances matter in assault cases. When Jon was little more than an acquaintance of Joffrey’s, who attacked him unprovoked in a crowded nightclub, the evidence—pictures of Joffrey taken after the fight taken on Cersei’s phone, the victim’s lurid account, and Jon’s unemployment status related to his PTSD—didn’t play in Jon’s favor. It was a solid enough case that Jon being a first time offender and the lack of substantial physical injury might not have been enough to keep him from doing jail time.

Having pleaded guilty to a reduced charge of disorderly conduct, Jon’s future is safe, but he owes a host of people for the outcome. For all of Ned’s scrambling, there was very little he could do until Tyrion and Jaime Lannister came forward with evidence of an incident between his daughter and Joffrey. Their account provided a different kind of context for the altercation at the Night’s Watch. Jon hitting Joffrey wasn’t strictly in defense of someone else, because no one ever claimed Sansa was in any immediate danger from her ex-boyfriend that night, but it was something.

That image of Joffrey as something short of innocent became all the more credible once Dany Targaryen spoke out. Sansa adding her account of a romantic Valentine’s dinner that went sour would have been very damning at a time when Joffrey’s character is being called into question outside of this case. Thanks to the settlement, his daughter was spared being dragged into the spotlight she dreads so much now.

 _You’re lucky_ , Ned told him in the limo ride home, giving the boy’s knee a squeeze. They’re all lucky. Who would have thought it?

Despite the huddle of photographers outside that would love to capture the first picture of Jon and Sansa together as a couple, the vast majority of the local media’s attention points elsewhere. Jon’s deal will be a footnote in tonight’s news, relegated to the scroll. Ms. Targaryen’s revelation is the new thing. In front of a bank of cameras, she stood ram rod straight, a heavy golden necklace in the shape of a dragon curling around her neck, and she read a prepared speech that set the world on fire.

Her brother supplied the Lannister heir with the midazolam that ended up in her drink the night of the fight. They were plotting together to leave her incapable of consent. Sick, almost unbelievable stuff. Dany says she has pictures and an audio recording that she’s handing over to the police. Joffrey should be nervous. Jon won’t be headed to Rikers Island, but with an investigation underway, Joffrey could face felony charges.

Ned’s skin crawls, knowing his daughter was with that boy. He hates that he didn’t see Joffrey for what he was. He’s spent many a sleepless night, worrying not only about Jon’s future, but Sansa’s past. When Dany made her announcement, Sansa didn't make it through the news segment, walking from the room before the other young woman was half finished. Did Ned let his friendship for Robert blind him to Joffrey’s nature? At the time, he’d seemed like a spoiled brat, a country club charmer born into wealth without much substance to back it up. He certainly didn’t strike Ned as violent, more of a coward than anything else. He wasn’t the kind of young man Ned would have chosen for his daughter, but you don’t pick who your kids fall for—a fact he and Cat have daily reminder of under their roof. Ned told himself at the time that Joffrey was young and was plenty of time for improvement if they ended up together. Who knows whether forbidding Sansa from seeing him would have done any good, but it never occurred to him that such a step might be necessary.

They all know better now. When Ned and Jon marched past him this afternoon, that smug grin firmly in place, despite his precarious situation, Jon gritted out under his breath, _I could wipe that look right off_. Jon proved himself there already, and despite the arthritis in Ned’s right elbow, he thinks he could have done a good enough job of it himself.

Maybe he’ll choke on his Cheerios. Regardless, today’s outcome has demonstrated that the system can work, which Ned had begun to question, as he was pushed out of politics and his children were hung out to dry by a merciless media machine. The Lannisters will face their judgment in this life and the next. If possible, Ned isn’t going to waste another thought on them. He’s got his family back. That’s what matters, and he wants to spend the night with them without the ever present fear of what lies ahead poisoning the mood.

Cat must feel the same way. As she walks over to him, Jon’s hands drop from Sansa, looking like he doesn’t know what’s coming for him. Ned isn’t sure what she intends either, until she pats Jon on the shoulder with a firm purse of her lips that verges on a smile. Her hand lingers against his shoulder blade, visible beneath his white dress shirt. “It looks like a celebration is in order, Jon.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“What would you like for dinner? Keeping in mind that our refrigerator isn’t as well stocked as I’d like it to be.”

Since this began, Cat has had to send Osha out to shop, since no one will pay for photos of the Stark au pair. Osha never comes back with half the items on the list. Cat thinks it might be intentional—Osha is not particularly fond of American food. Ned suspects the girl just dislikes doing anything beyond her established responsibilities and the extra fifty they give her for running errands isn’t enough to entice her to do them correctly. Cat says anything beyond that would be highway robbery, so they muddle through.

His wife’s suggestion that Jon pick what they eat tonight is as close to an admission that she’s glad he won’t be going to jail as Jon is likely to get. Jon isn’t her favorite person right now. Ned can’t imagine that will change anytime soon. It’s an adjustment for all of them, such a bizarre forced reconception of their family. But there’s some progress hinted at in her offer that makes both Jon and Ned breathe out in relief. Her reaction is worlds away from her initial hostility, when she said things in anger that she wouldn’t have otherwise.

She concedes to his request for ordering out for pizza with good grace, although it’s a less nutritious choice than she would normally indulge. Even Sansa seems pleased with the choice, but the boys’ shouts are the loudest, when Osha wheels Bran out of the elevator and Cat announces the menu. The startled looking pizza boy arrives, and they don’t make it to the dining room. They pile into the living room, grabbing for a hot slice. The daring of it seems like a fitting way to bid goodbye to the awkward, tense dinners they’ve sat through for too long.

They’re all happy. Thankful too. It’s about as good a dinner they’ve had since Robb’s passing, though it’s liable to cause Ned some indigestion later. Arya sets aside her teenage frostiness, forgetting at least for the night that she’s not speaking to Jon or Sansa. She gives her big brother what he pretends is a bone crushing hug and picks the spot at Jon’s side on the sofa. The boys are loud and greasy despite Cat’s best efforts to dole out an ample supply of napkins, urge everyone not to touch the upholstery, please, and remember this is a special occasion.

Not everyone understands what that means. Rickon asked every morning why he couldn’t go to school, once staying home became a bore rather than a treat. He certainly didn’t understand what was at stake or what was going on between his brother and sister even after they sat them down to discuss it as a family. Bran sometimes seemed as if he was oblivious too. Other times he was much too quiet for Ned and Cat to believe he was untouched by what was happening.

It doesn’t take a big family meeting for the boys to be transformed by the day’s events. They’re more concerned with getting the right slice with the perfect amount of cheese than the news that Jon’s been at the courthouse today or that he won’t be going back or that their sister is making it almost impossible for Jon to eat, since she won’t let go of his hand, her long white fingers wrapped tightly around his. Everything is normal to them now, adapting the way Ned wishes they all could.

Jon and Sansa haven’t sat next to each other at the table since Jon confessed to their illicit relationship, and now they sit side by side, pressed hip to knee. Ned makes no comment about the way Sansa clings to him. Neither does Cat. She's more likely to intervene, since she is the one who came up with the long list of rules intended to keep the two of them apart for as long as they’re living under their roof. It’s an unspoken understanding between him and his wife: they look happy, a sorely needed sentiment around here, and neither one of them wants to disturb that.

Which is what makes Jon’s request, while Cat clears away the plates and Sansa gathers up the crumpled napkins and empty pizza boxes, so unexpected. He asks if Ned will stay behind for a minute. _To talk_. It sounds surprisingly ominous given the outcome of the day. Ned was going to postpone any serious discussion until some distant point in time, when emotions aren’t so raw and everyone looks a little less like they are about to shatter.

Jon’s knees bounce until Cat and Sansa are gone, his calm evaporating in the absence of Sansa’s grip. She’s still holding him together, and that thought makes a knot form in Ned’s throat that he can barely swallow around, while he watches the boy shift against the sofa cushions, working himself up to something. He’s not going to jail, but the damage done by war, loss, and uncertainty is still there.

“What is it, son?”

Jon looks back over his shoulder, checking that they’re alone before leaning forward, bracing his elbows on his knees, forcing them to still. His hands tent before his face. “I need to get out of the city. Go to White Harbor.”

Ned nods. That is exactly what they all need. If they could have escaped the city sooner, they’d already be in the relative seclusion of Michigan. Now they’re freed of the charges that trapped them here, school is out, and there is nothing to keep them from enjoying a summer retreat. “We can plan a nice long family trip.”

It’ll be warm enough for the boys to get in the water. The rest of them will find it too cold, but the joy of youth is the surest kind of armor.

“More than a summer vacation. I need to get out of this place. For a while.”

Ned pulls his legs in underneath his armchair, his knees spreading, as his ankles cross. He has no words. That isn’t what he was expecting Jon to say. Not when it’s clear how much Jon depends on Sansa.

Jon’s cocks his head at Ned’s silence. “It’s the crowds. All the people. The attention. Everything about this damn place.”

Ned sighs, lifting a heavy hand to scrub his face. He didn't miss the way Jon flinched at the flash of the cameras as they left the courthouse today or how he hesitated to get out of the limo, when they pulled up outside the house. “I can see that.”

Cat does well here in the city. Sansa used to bloom like a rose, surrounded by all her favorite things. But after all these years, they prefer Michigan to the fishbowl. Jon maybe most of all. Without a good reason for Ned to be in New York, he’s considered moving them back to Michigan permanently. He isn't the only one with responsibilities or ties here, however. Sansa has her internship. The children have their school friends. Cat has the charities she’s invested in here. He was going to wait until the summer was well underway and ask Cat what she thought, so they could weigh the pros and cons of saying goodbye to this place.

Whether they stay or move, Ned hasn’t known how they will move forward as a family. They can't continue to live with rules that created an armed camp to keep these two young people apart. Anyway, Ned doubts it has worked as well as they like to pretend. It’s only allowed them some space to ignore the reality facing them. It’s a reasonable decision and it could come as a relief to Ned as a parent, solving a seemingly unsolvable parental dilemma, but the thought of Jon moving away only creates more uncomfortable questions.

The pizza sits in his gut like a rock, and he touches his hand to his belt. “Does Sansa know?”

Jon grimaces. “No.”

She won’t like it. His daughter can be painfully mulish when she wants to be. He’ll have a fight ahead of him, convincing her that this is for the best.

“She’ll be disappointed.”

Jon’s head drops. His hands fist against his eyes.

“I don't say that to distress you.”

Ned doesn’t want Jon to be unhappy. Doesn’t want to make his daughter unhappy either. That’s the rub.

Jon can’t go on like he has, barely keeping his head above the water. Ned couldn’t allow himself to think beyond Jon’s court case, but the boy has a future again, and it would be a waste to spend it languishing in their basement, hiding from a world that is too much for him. Jon is a good young man, and he could do good things if he could stand to go out in this world.

“She's going to hate it,” he agrees, as his hands flatten, covering his face. “I don't want her to think I'm leaving her. I just can’t get to who I want to be here. I can’t get better.” Jon lifts his head to point towards the wide window that overlooks the street. “I leave this house, and they’re going to follow me and taunt me and try to get some goddamn reaction out of me that will sell magazines.” With the drapes pulled closed, they can’t see who is out there, but they both know their faces. “And if I stumble, that’s going to bring more criticism down on the family. On Sansa.”

“I’m sorry, son.”

“It is what it is. I gotta get out of here. For everybody’s sake.” Jon presses down on the sofa cushions, making his shoulders reach for his ears. “At least I have a choice about where I'm going.”

Ned nods. “You're right. We’ll make the arrangements. You can stay in the house until you get on your feet. However long that takes.” The boy knows best, and when Ned considers his own mental state when he came home from the Gulf, he knows the process he went through would have been complicated here in the city, where he is not most comfortable, and he didn’t have the eyes of the world on him. “Finding a job would be a good place to start.”

“Yeah. My counselor wants me to get a job too, for my _recovery_. I want a job. I don’t like doing nothing. I want to deserve her.”

He can hear a defensive edge creeping into Jon’s tone, and he raises his hand to stop him. “It’s not a matter of deserving. That's more than established.” With his eyes directed heavenward, Jon clears his throat. “You need something to feel good about.” A measure of independence, some success, so they can relate as equals.

Jon's jaw is tight enough that he can barely get out his grunted response. “Right.”

Ned runs his hands down the arms of the chair, curling his fingers around the ends. “Are you going to ask her to go with you?”

Ned knows how it was after the war. He clung to Cat, while he figured out his life and found new purpose. It’s not what Ned wants for his daughter—Sansa’s got enough going on without trying to save Jon and giving up her internship would be disappointing—but it would be understandable if he asks her to come with him. She won't want to be left behind. They could be saying goodbye to them both.

Jon gives a quick shake of his head. “This is shit I need to figure out on my own.”

Ned accused Jon of being selfish, when he kept his relationship with Sansa a secret from the family. They didn’t handle it maturely. Ned will always stand by that assessment of their conduct. But he’s not a selfish young man. There's nothing to be disappointed in here. His chest tightens. Lyanna would be so proud of who her boy has turned out to be. So proud of the man he’s working to become.

Jon and Sansa are young. There’s a world of choices ahead of them from careers to partners. One of Ned’s worst fears, since they announced their affair, has been that this relationship will prove to be temporary. That they will break up and it will destroy the family. That ugly tension between Jon and Sansa will leave Jon without a family and deprive the rest of them of a well loved brother and son.

Jon moving to Michigan could put some space between them. The whole thing could cool off and end naturally, amicably, saving them all from a disastrous ending. Maybe that will be the eventual outcome of Jon's decision, but Ned thinks Jon's decision to go this alone is proof that he and Cat need to do their best to wrap their minds around this relationship. Jon could drag Sansa half way across the country, using her a crutch in his recovery and sacrificing her career in the process. That would be the easy thing. But he's taking the harder path. He's thinking beyond tomorrow or next month. He's thinking beyond next year. They too need to start thinking about Jon in different terms.

Ned stands and walks around the wide coffee table to rest his hand on Jon’s head, the way he could when Jon was a skinny twelve year old, who barely came up to his chest. “I’ll tell her I think you’re doing the right thing if it will help. She'll understand eventually. She's a good girl.”


	45. Tyrion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It took some sobering up, but Tyrion is finally here and ready to conquer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had most of this written a week ago before I was left incapacitated by a hip injury and the resulting muscle relaxants. *sigh* I hope to have the next outtake (set in Michigan) and chapter (Jaime) up more speedily.

Chapter Forty-Four: Tyrion

“This is a bit much,” Barristan says with his arms folded over his chest. The pose pulls at the seams in his sleeves. He must have muscles hiding under his navy suit coat to manage that, which hardly seems fair at his age. For once Tyrion would like to work for an older man, who is shriveled by old age and preferably impotent.

Barristan might frown at the white shirted caterers, who carry silvered trays laden with the finest luncheon spread money could buy, but Tyrion doesn’t need him to be impressed. Tyrion already got the job, so he doesn’t need to win over the muscle bound boss. It’s the other employees Tyrion wants to sway.

“Good. Over the top is precisely what I was going for,” Tyrion says, tugging at his cuffs and clicking his tongue, as the office staff spills in, drawn by the promise of free food. “Largesse is my thing.”

Barristan grimaces, as a blonde slides a tall stack of china plates onto the table closest to them. “Clearly.”

Smoked fish and meats, shrimp and oysters on the half shell, tropical fruit piled high, French cheeses, stuffed olives, caviar, and enough artisanal bread to leave you constipated for a week are artfully arranged in the 30th floor break room. They’re still unloading the pastries and chocolates, as the suits creep close, peering over the caterers’ shoulders like they’ve never eaten before. Once they set it all up, Tyrion hopes there will be something to tantalize everyone's tastebuds and then some.

When he got the call from Barristan & Rakharo Investments, Tyrion knew he was going to make his first day working here exceptionally memorable for everyone. As soon as he sobered up. He requested two weeks to get his affairs in order, which involved spending a lot of time shaking in his bathroom, while attempting not to vomit bile and thinking up different ways to humiliate everyone who had ever wronged him. He won’t ever get the chance to follow through on all those plans, but just making them was some comfort with no one to help him, as he tried to make himself presentable for the world again. No girlfriend. No concerned brother. Certainly no daddy dearest to wipe his brow. Tyrion suffered the DTs all by his lonesome with only the promise of finally ending up more successful than all his wretched family combined to keep him warm. They could all go straight to hell.

Things are going to be different at Barristan & Rakharo. He isn’t going to be the unwanted second son, unappreciated and unheralded, shunted off into a dark corner, where he can go purposefully unnoticed. He plans on becoming the shining star of this place. Before it is all over, he’ll be indispensible, running the show, and properly thanked for it. Daily.

Instead of buying people’s loyalty—which in retrospect hasn’t proved to be terribly effective long term, considering his girlfriend decided she could get bigger and better gifts if she sucked his father's dick instead—Tyrion means to take a different approach. He has never been a star, but he’s lived with them and knows how star-fucking works. Stars make an entrance and by their very nature they make everyone want to be around them. Tyrion doesn’t have the looks or the charisma, so he means to win people over today by appealing to their stomachs.

What is required is a grand gesture, a show of generosity that won’t lead to endless gift giving. As his head throbbed against the marble tile floor of his bath, getting everyone rip roaring drunk with a wide array of obscenely priced wines was his first notion. Unfortunately, Barristan is all business. Definitely not the kind of boss to look kindly on even the most harmless shenanigans. Not that he looks pleased with the lavishness supplied by the Astapor Catering Company either.

“There’s no need to be so grim. This is simply my way of saying hello to everyone,” Tyrion says, doing his best _Price Is Right_ showcase model motion. “I’m being friendly.”

“That’s what worries me,” his new boss says, looking down sideways at him from his considerable height.

“Ah, don’t be so paranoid. It’s chow. Nothing to get agitated about.”

“You could have knocked on office doors and introduced yourself. That’s what people normally do.”

Which would have gotten Tyrion little more than a handful of curious stares. No thanks. The goal is to avoid the need to get blitzed after the work day is over, so he doesn’t undo all the hard work of de-pickling himself. Getting the job only just allowed him to crawl free from the pit he sunk into, but he’s close enough to the edge that it wouldn’t take much to pull him back down.

“You’re no fun.”

Barristan doesn’t look as if he disagrees with Tyrion’s assessment. He rocks on his heels, as he watches the doorway, eyeing up each person who has decided to show up for the little party that was announced this morning through interoffice email. Tyrion even showed up a little early to make sure his secretary sent it out at the start of business. The promptness paid off: by the looks of it, they will easily need to spill out of the break room into the cubical space outside.

Everyone loves food. Even superior skinny sorts, who make a big show of picking at their plates, when you know they want to stick their faces in it. This lunch could end up earning him goodwill similar to what the wine would have accomplished. Maybe more, Tryion thinks, as he spies one unforeseen attendee weaving through the crowd, her pale hair reflecting the unflattering overhead lighting like a beacon. Half the collected assembly turns to watch her pass by, though no one who works here can be unaccustomed to seeing her visit her uncle’s office.

Her gaze fixes on him, and Tyrion stops his preening, abruptly aware of what now feels like his clumsy movements. Dany is yet another one of his past failures, an embarrassing overreach. The need to impress wells up inside of him. He can taste it on the back of his tongue, as sour as his own vomit.

Barristan is already reaching out an arm to wrap around his niece, when he says to Tyrion, “Fun isn’t the point. Just do your job or you won’t have one anymore.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Tyrion salutes. He stops himself from clicking his heels at the last moment. He would have done it a moment ago, but Dany and Barristan wouldn’t find anything amusing about such antics. Some things really are too much, and the good news is, he can do professional. He can convince Dany that she’s wrong to think he shouldn’t work here. Eventually.

When she addresses him, however, it isn’t the dismissive disdain he expects. “You stand to become a busy man, since I might have a job for you too,” the petite heiress says, slipping out of Barristan’s quick, one armed embrace.

For a moment his tongue is left thick and useless in his mouth, but after a less than commanding clearing of his throat, he manages. “Ms. Targaryen, I live to serve.”

“If that’s really the case, you can call me Dany again. Care to talk?” she asks, motioning behind her to the lone corner not already occupied by some eager eater, shoveling crudités into their mouth. “Unless you’re too busy entertaining the masses.”

There’s a bite to her amendment, one that assures him she’s as unimpressed by his grand gesture as her uncle is, though she doesn’t wear Barristan’s stern glare. It’s not a real blow: he wouldn’t have expected the Targaryen heir to be swayed by seafood if he knew she would be here. If he’s to convince her that she missed a real chance by rejecting his offer to manage her finances, he’ll need to actually appear useful in more than gastronomic terms.

He gives a terse shake of his head. “Not too busy for you.”

“Excellent,” she says without any hint of salty sarcasm. “Excuse us, Uncle.”

At Dany’s request, Tyrion expects distaste to twist Barristan’s strong features, but when she pats her uncle’s arm as if he is her favorite pet, his sometimes sad eyes light with nothing but affection. Barristan appears unaffected by her need to speak with the man who is not his favorite person in the world, despite being his newest hire. Perhaps he already knows what it is Dany means to approach Tyrion about and has approved it. Stands to reason. If she relied on her uncle previously, she must be even more attached to him since her brother violated her trust. When you’re in an elevated position such as Dany is, the number of people you can truly trust tends to narrow rather than expand: if she didn’t know that already, she has certainly learned it of late.

Tyrion follows after her, envying the command she demands with every swaying step. In a room full of professionals, people hop out of her way and nod hello like happy sycophants. She doesn’t need a power suit or towering stilettos to earn respect from people with more degrees and experience than she boasts. She manages to embody strength in a one shouldered, gauzy confection that would be better suited for eating ambrosia on Mount Olympus than spending an afternoon in a well air conditioned office in New York. Even the way she lazily leans her narrow shoulder into the corner and crosses one sandaled foot over the other has an uncalculated display of power to it that seems a world away from the girlish enthusiasm and snap he saw in her before. She’s changed, and everyone around her must see it. After all, they watched it play out on their televisions in primetime.

“You offered your assistance to me once,” she says, brushing back a lock of hair, an escapee of the braid that follows the crown of her head, adding to the goddess like effect.

He remembers his cavalier offer quite clearly. Though it feels like a lifetime ago, when he was still trying to please his father and Shae. The neat slice of Dany's rejection still reverberates through his bones. He thought having Dany Targaryen as his own personal client would ensure that everything else would fall into place. His father would see his real worth. His pockets would be lined with more money, and more money always pleased Shae, since she had an endless thirst for necklaces and dresses and shoes and fine dining, which he wanted to give her, because she was the first beautiful thing who really loved him for who he was. Except she didn’t.

“Yes, I did,” he says, forcing a smile that the muscles around his mouth are not wont to give after months of nothing but wallowing in misery.

“I’d like to revisit that conversation if your offer still stands.”

Tyrion blinks back at Dany, waiting for some hint of her true intentions. When she only stares back at him, her face set with a serene sort of confidence Tyrion wishes he’d been born with, so he wouldn’t always feel compelled to resort to jokes and bribes, he nods at her. “It most definitely does.”

He’s not looking to please his leech of an ex-girlfriend anymore. Or his father. What would be the point? They’re both dead to him. Which isn’t as good as actually dead and buried, because then he wouldn’t run the risk of bumping into them during a power lunch at Betony over chicken liver mousse. But there’s still an undeniable appeal that makes his heart beat quick. To potentially being able to say he manages Dany’s charitable finances or advises her personally? That’s the dream. They’d be really fucking sorry they ever bet on the wrong goddamn horse.

“My uncle handles my inheritance, but I could use someone to manage the financial side of my charitable endeavors. An advisor. A partner of sorts. I’d like you to be that man.”

His chest rises, and it’s almost enough to pull at the seams the way he envied in Barristan. “You were pretty dead set against working with me. What changed your mind?”

“I’m not sure I have changed my mind about you,” she admits with a careless little shrug. “I’d say I admired your speaking out on behalf of Sansa Stark, but I’m not entirely convinced you did that for the right reasons.”

She shouldn’t be. “How perceptive.”

Coming out to the press with his secondhand information against Joffrey worked like a charm. Particularly when Jaime and Dany added their own revelations. It was a blow to the family, the kind of blow Tyrion was dying to deliver, as he sat on his couch alone and progressively more inebriated. Clients have left Lannister Mercantile like rats abandoning a sinking ship. With the heir apparent under investigation as a potential rapist and domestic abuser, Jaime even more uninvolved in the business than previously, and his aging father a frozen faced stroke victim, suddenly the future of the city’s most prominent investment company is in serious doubt. The board must be shitting their pants.

Fractures in Lannister Merc’s previously solid foundation are the reason Tyrion got the call from Barristan inviting him to join them. Someone with inside knowledge of Lannister Merc’s former clients is just the sort of man they could use to ensure that those clients become Barristan & Rakharo clients. It’s a purely practical arrangement. Barristan doesn’t think any better of him. Apparently Dany doesn’t either.

Tyrion stuffs his hands in his pockets to hide the nervous fidgeting of his fingers. Playing this moment correctly is of the utmost importance, but he wasn’t prepared and isn’t entirely sure what angle to play. He has to feel it out as best he can. “It wasn’t purely selfless like what you did for the girl. Does that lessen me in your esteem?”

“Maybe. But maybe that doesn’t matter.”

Tyrion knows his worth here, but he’s not certain he understands what Dany expects to gain from having him around. He crooks a brow at her. “It mattered before.”

“I’ve reconsidered who I should trust and on what basis. You’re good, aren’t you? That’s what I’ve heard.”

“I’m the best, but I hope you don’t think that I’ve reformed myself. I still want to dominate this city.”

She presses her lips together, observing him for a long moment. “Depends on what you mean by reformed. Do you still tell people when you think they’re making stupid choices?”

Tyrion considers assuring her that he doesn’t, that he is in fact reformed. The little demon that sits on his shoulder, whispering things that make him feel desperate and not good enough, urges her to promise her anything. A good, stiff drink would drown the voice. A drink he doesn’t have. His new office doesn’t even sport a bar. Of course, a lie would be the easy solution, the coward’s solution, but he doesn’t want to spend the rest of his life holding his tongue. Not for anyone. “In the nastiest of terms. It’s a defining character trait, I’m afraid.”

“Well, that’s what I’m looking for. Honesty. You can have all the ambition in the world, but I want you to be honest with me.”

He feels as if he’s fallen through the rabbit hole. A new job and an offer from the city’s most cherished darling, the princess who cares. The Tyrion of a month ago wouldn’t have thought this possible, when he plotted Cersei’s downfall from the bottom of a whiskey bottle.

He swallows, working saliva into his mouth to respond. “I can do that.”

“Although you’ll have to do without the nasty part in your delivery, when next you tell me I’ve chosen a worthless charity or a questionable way to raise funds for a good one.”

“I suppose I could work on a more subtle approach.”

“No one is allowed to speak down to me. No one is allowed to use me. I’m sure you saw how I was let down by my own brother.”

‘Let down’ is such a carefully chosen euphemism for what Viserys Targaryen did to his younger sister. Or what he intended to happen to her at the hands of Joffrey. But it’s obvious she doesn’t need sharp words to express what she feels about her brother. Her pretty mouth purses, sharpening her chin, and her ethereal colored eyes narrow. She’s not a tall woman, but she’s got enough fire that the small alteration in her fine features carries a threat with it. Dany Targaryen leveled half of the city with one press conference. Right now no one would doubt her ferocity.

The whole city heard about Viserys and Joffrey's transaction. Dany handed over evidence to the police against her brother and brought down the Lannister heir in one fell swoop. There are other casualties of her conquest like Joff’s fiancée, Margaery, and his mother, Cersei, who no one wants anything to do with anymore, since they’re tainted by their avid support of such a despicable man. People are even starting to make comments about Robert Baratheon. Questioning where the boy might have picked up such habits regarding the treatment of women. He’s an easy target with his company collapsing: another business prospect that Barristan wants Tyrion’s input on.

“Family,” Tyrion agrees with a rub of his nose.

“Family?” she sing songs back with a tilt of her head. “Sometimes a person proves they aren’t worthy of being called that anymore. Like my brother.”

“I don’t know about your brother, but Joffrey was never what you would call an ideal nephew,” Tyrion says. “I would have never claimed him as family if given the choice.”

He’s not the only one that preferred to distance himself from Joffrey. His brother, the boy's father, hardly claimed him. Though Tyrion wondered from time to time if that was not at least part of the boy’s problem: lack of fatherly guidance.

Still, without Joffrey’s antics, Tyrion would never be standing here. Lannister Mercantile would be smoothly sailing and he would still be out of a job. He should send the boy a fruit basket. Something nice. Harry & David’s best fucking deal of the season.

“I think we both know who the enemy is at this point. Let’s make some money and do some good. Hmmm?” she hums, her eyes drifting distractedly from him to some point behind him.

“Sounds perfect,” he grumbles, failing spectacularly to conceal his disappointment, when it’s Jorah Mormont who sidles up alongside him and announces his presence with a grunt.

Tyrion fully expected to lose her attention long before this, but he would rather not lose it to this lug, who worked against him, when he previously tried to get on here at Barristan & Rakharo. All because he made the mistake of trying to get Dany’s number from the lovelorn idiot.

“You know Mr. Mormont, don’t you?” Dany says, pushing off the wall to lean into the balding man, whose intake of breath at her touch is clearly audible.

She wraps a hand around Jorah’s elbow. It draws Tyrion's attention to the man's green shirt, which is rolled up, exposing the length of his forearms. He’s got ropey muscles too. Tyrion hopes not all his coworkers look like aging gym rats. He saw enough of that at Lannister Merc with his brother stalking the hallways in all his leonine grace.

“Mormont,” Tyrion says flatly, keeping his hands tucked in his pockets.

“We were just having a chat about some business matters,” Dany says, looking up into Mormont’s adoring eyes.

“Are you sure you want to get yourself involved with him?” Mormont says, failing to infuse anything like jocularity into his query, though perhaps he doesn’t mean any. The man seems wholly humorless.

“I definitely do.”

“Clearly the woman has terrible taste,” Tyrion says, grinning back at him.

Apparently, he’s not dim enough to miss the implication, given the flush that rises above his button-down collar. It approximates a rather unfortunate case of farmer’s tan.

Dany puts a stop to the back and forth with a quick wave of her hand. “Enough. I think we're finished here.”

“It’s been a pleasure talking with you,” Tyrion says. “A most unexpected pleasure.”

“Hopefully it will be a fruitful partnership. So we can conquer this city just the way you wanted to.”

If it’s revenge that motivates her at all, it looks much better on her than it does on Tyrion. He knows, because he’s seen his ugly mug in the bathroom mirror, lined by hatred, reddened by drink.

“We’ll make a mean team,” he agrees.

“It’s a deal then?” she asks, putting out her hand.

Finally pulling his hand free, he takes her delicate hand and gives it a firm shake. “You’ve got a deal. Depending on our coming to a mutually acceptable rate of reimbursement,” he says with a wink. “You might be running a charity, but I’m not.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m sure we can reach an agreement on that point. Now, I intend on eating lunch at your expense. Jorah?” she says, pulling at his arm.

“Oh, please do,” Tyrion says, though he hopes she avoids the oysters. The last thing he wants to do is aid in getting Mormont laid.

As they walk away, Mormont’s hand hovers by the small of her back as if he can’t quite decide whether he’s allowed to place it there. Whatever is going on between them must be new or not entirely defined, but Tyrion dislikes even the promise of someone else’s happiness, however fleeting. Seeing an unequal couple sdoesn’t encourage the way it might have in the past. Tyrion’s learned as many tough lessons as Dany has.

It will be fleeting. Love is a lie. You can’t trust anyone. Dany will break his heart. That’s what women do. Not that Tyrion feels sorry for the asshole. He doesn’t deserve her anyway. Someone with all that promise, with all that power at the tips of her perfectly manicured fingertips needs a true equal. However Mormont’s insinuated himself into her life, in the long run, he'll never be that man.

Tyrion won’t interfere. He won’t say a goddamn word to either of them about this ill-advised affair. Let the fool learn for himself as Tyrion did. From now on, Tyrion is done with his quest for love and female understanding—it was never meant for him. He’s meant for bigger things and there are other ways to scratch an itch, leaving him to focus on the things that really matter. He crosses his arms over his chest, a slow smile curling his lips, one that comes more naturally, as he surveys the room. Dany just made that goal that much easier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was at times rather exhausting to write, as I was trying to go for the ADWD Tyrion headset. I eventually decided on going for the emerging out of the darkness Tyrion, though he still has some negativity issues, particularly with women. I didn't really like reading about that Tyrion in ADWD, which makes me wonder how GRRM felt about the development in his admittedly favorite character.


	46. Jaime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cersei didn't mention in her text that Tommen would be along.

Chapter Forty-Five: Jaime

Cersei’s unexpected text didn’t mention Tommen. _I’ll be at your place in ten. I’m assuming you’ll be there._  There is a judgment underlying her message, because where else would he be? But he dresses himself like he has somewhere to go and he answers her knock after a purposeful wait, expecting to find her waiting impatiently and alone. When Jaime pulls open his apartment door, an unimpressed blankness carefully fixed on his face, he sees that this isn’t going to be a private tête-à-tête. His six year old stands alongside Cersei, holding on to the hem of her dress and halfway hidden behind her leg.

“Hey, buddy,” Jaime says, squatting down to be on his son’s level. It doesn’t look like he’ll ever be as tall as either of his parents. Could be he’s a little taller than he was the last time Jaime saw him, but not by much. He’s probably one of the smaller boys in the class. Maybe one of the plumper ones too. “Aren’t you supposed to be in school?”

“He wasn’t feeling well today,” Cersei answers for Tommen, as she slides her hand between the boy’s shoulder blades and presses him towards Jaime.

Stepping forward in halting half steps, the boy’s red sneakers squeak against the concrete floor. Jaime reaches out instinctually with his right hand, meaning to ruffle the boy’s golden hair. He stops himself at the last second and lets it drop back to his knee. The prosthetic might frighten Tommen.

Jaime swallows back the lump that rises up in his throat at the widening of Tommen’s eyes, when he looks over Jaime’s shoulder at an apartment he won’t remember. His eyes are green just like his. Just like Joffrey’s, but free of the squint that makes their eldest have an air of cruelty about him. Tommen’s spirit is open and gentle like Myrcella’s. They may have failed with Joffrey, but for God knows what reason, the younger two are the best of them. At least he assumes that’s the case. He hasn’t seen his daughter since she left for college—easily as long as it’s been since he’s seen Tommen.

Jaime rubs at his freshly shaven chin before extending his left hand to touch the boy’s elbow. “Not feeling good?” he asks with an exaggerated frown.

Tommen presses his chubby hand to his stomach, fingers splayed over the buttoned up cardigan Cersei has him trussed up in. “My tummy hurts.”

“Sorry to hear that. You want a glass of milk? Maybe watch some cartoons?” Jaime’s got a million channels. Surely there are cartoons on one of them at this hour.

Jaime stands, opening the industrial style door wider to let them both in, after Tommen sucks in his lip and nods at the prospect of canned entertainment. Jaime would have been crawling the walls at this age, being kept home from school to convalesce. He always preferred to run wild outdoors over staying quiet inside. Teachers will prefer Tommen. If his kindergarten teacher isn't already charmed, Jaime would be surprised.

Closing the door with a solid shove, Jaime keeps his eyes trained on his son’s head. Cersei could have easily brought the boy to use a weapon, but Jaime doesn’t regret his presence the way he might have in the past, when he only wanted to be alone with Cersei. He's more afraid than excited by the prospect of being alone with her at this point. Tommen gives Jaime something else to focus on other than the twisted feelings that surround his relationship with his ex. He is a handy distraction. Until Cersei shepherds the boy into Jaime’s bedroom and he’s left alone to scrounge up the promised milk. Then it’s just the glare of an empty refrigerator and his racing thoughts.

The high pitched voices of cartoon characters precede the clip of Cersei’s heels on the hard floor, announcing her entrance into the kitchen area. Jaime can feel her staring at him before he ever faces her.

“I guess I don’t have milk,” Jaime admits, letting his refrigerator door thud closed.

“Of course you don’t,” she says, bracing herself against the concrete kitchen counter.

Her fingers wrap around the edge and her right leg bends at the knee until she’s all appealing angles and curves that draw the eye. He hasn’t seen her in months, and he can’t stop staring, taking in every inch of her. He’s been aided in his attempts to pretend she means nothing to him by the lack of coverage devoted to her. After a period of hateful shaming, the media has become more interested in Joffrey than his mother. She’s still painfully beautiful though, and he knows her face and the lines of her body as well as he knows his own. Her red wrap dress fits like a glove, plunging more deeply than could ever be considered professional, her heels are high, making her calf flex, and her hair is sleekly tucked behind her ear, exposing the long drape of golden earrings and the elegant slope of her tanned neck. The effect is no less potent for its familiarity.

It makes him feel vaguely out of control having her within arm’s reach after so long. No other woman will ever manage to stir these feelings in him. There’s sometimes a certain kind of discomfort, a confusing distraction like the low hum of electricity before a storm that creeps into his therapy sessions in Brienne’s new private clinic. But it’s controllable. He can shake it off after the session is over. Forget about it for weeks until he sees her again and there is another weird moment that doesn't fit into his reality.

Jaime crosses his arms over his chest, and only slightly fumbles getting his prosthetic tucked in correctly, mostly out of sight. “I might have milk. For coffee.”

“Or tea. English breakfast perhaps.” She smirks, no hint of white peeking through the curl of her reddened lips. “White soda is better for a sour tummy, you know.”

“Right.” Her mocking tone shouldn’t be a turn on, but they’ve only fucked after a fight for going on years. What excites him about her has gotten all turned around in his head, corrupting what once felt so natural. “What do you need, Cersei?”

“To talk.”

“That’s what phones are for.” A call would have spared him the sight of her here in his apartment, where he fucked her on the couch, on his bed, and in his shower, making her come over and over until she was a puddle of worn out pleasure.

“Since you won’t even answer my texts, dropping by was my only option, don’t you think?” she demands, hyper-pronouncing each syllable. “I know you’re not busy, Jaime. So what’s your excuse?”

He wants to bite back that he is busy. It would be satisfying to have a litany of personal successes to list back at her, when she is so obviously on shaky ground, but he is not his brother with an impressive new job and the attention of the city’s favorite heiress. Jaime probably doesn't even have his old job, since he hasn’t been in to his office at Lannister Merc in months. That's for the best: he has no intention of going back. But there’s no real plan beyond avoiding the family business. It's unlikely that Tyrion will invite him to join him at Barristan & Rakharo. His brother holds a grudge better than anyone save Cersei. There will be no offers waiting there. Shame. Jaime sometimes thinks he could be as good as Tyrion at the whole business game if he tried. Show his ailing father he was his son after all.

“Well, for one, we don’t have anything to talk about.” Or at least he has nothing to say to her. Nothing that will fix what’s driven them apart: she betrayed him. Robert was one thing. He’d grown accustomed to that. But the others? “And haven’t for a while.”

“Not even about your flesh and blood, your children? That's not a topic you care to discuss?”

“They’re grown, and Tommen isn’t mine, right?” It’s an old complaint, but one that feels fresh after not seeing Tommen for so long. She wanted another baby, his baby, but Tommen couldn’t openly be his. Tommen had to be Robert’s or the life she’d built for herself would be spoiled. Tommen's life would be spoiled. It was all bullshit as far as Jaime was concerned.

Her nostrils flare. “I’m not going there.”

“Good,” he says, forcing a smile. “Not my problem then.”

Whatever victory he’s scored seems petty, when she sizes him up and sneers in distaste at whatever she has found lacking. “You’re not the least bit concerned about Joffrey? It’s partially your fault that he’s in this… situation.”

“No. Can't say that I am. Whatever he’s done, he did without my help, and I’m sure your blood sucking lawyers will straighten it all out for him.”

The chatter of voices from the next room filter’s through the spaces in their conversation. Tommen’s high, clear voice is a part of the babble, talking back to whatever program he’s watching. The happy sounds stretch out, growing strangely uncomfortable to listen to, while Cersei coolly stares at him, willing him to feel guilty for something. “A good father would be worried about his son.”

It’s not Jaime’s fault if he has been a somewhat uninvolved father. It would have been different if Cersei hadn’t left him, married Robert, and let that man hold sway over Jaime's children’s lives.

“Margaery left him,” she continues, as her glossy nails begin to drum a quick rhythm atop the counter.

He lets his weight carry him back against the refrigerator door, crossing one foot over the other. “You didn’t even like the girl.”

“And I was right, wasn’t I?”

“Debatable.” Margaery didn’t come out smelling like a rose in the flurry of gossip that surrounded the collapse of Jon Snow's case and the emergence of a new one with Joff at the center, but whatever she did to Sansa paled in comparison to the charges against Joffrey. Cersei will always side with her son though. Always put him first. Jaime resented that devotion almost from the day Joff came into the world, squalling and kicking ruddy legs. “Am I supposed to cry about it?”

“You should try caring about something, Jaime.”

“Oh I did, honey. It didn’t work out for me.”

She pulled his heart out through his chest and ground it under her heel, once he was of no use to her anymore. It’s convenient that he’s incapable of feeling anything for another woman, because he has no interest in ever sacrificing himself for love again. He’ll remain a bachelor. Not just single, but also a modern day monk sans the religious devotion, which would be tiresome. In a city where sex is always an option, there has to be something praiseworthy about that kind of choice.

Cersei's chest inflates in a slow inhale that thrusts her breasts higher in the deep v of her dress. “You think you’re better than me from your privileged place of devotion, but you’re not. Siding with that Stark girl, instead of your own son? It’s disgusting.”

“I did the right thing. You don’t hit girls. That’s rule number one,” Jaime says, holding up a finger and remember for once not to try his right hand first.

“If you spent some time in the real world, instead of this teenage fantasy you live in,” she says, gesturing around at his apartment, “you’d know that it happens all the time.”

“It shouldn’t.”

Jaime’s lost no sleep over the prospect of Joffrey going to jail, because that’s exactly where he belongs. For the revolting mess with Dany and for pushing around Sansa Stark too. It's cowardly. It isn't what Jaime would have ever wanted in a son. Ned Stark's kids have their issues, but Jon Snow hits men, not girls.

“You’re a regular knight in shining armor, aren’t you?” she asks, as she leans over the counter, her right foot rising high enough off the floor that her heel dangles from her toe, swinging with the tug of gravity. “Sir Jaime, the handsome storybook hero.”

Out of this whole mess, doing the right thing on behalf of Sansa is the one thing that gives him comfort. When he feels rudderless and empty, when he can’t sleep for thinking about his fucking cousin Lancel bending Cersei over, Jaime congratulates himself on being a good man, the kind of man people can count on to do the right thing. He promised Sansa’s mother he would help her, though he knew Cersei would resent it, and he followed through. The world knows. Brienne knows. And she approves, which is a comfort too, since she’s one of the better people he’s ever met. Backing up Tyrion’s account proves Jaime’s not as worthless as people believed, and Cersei would mock him for it.

She cocks her head. “What kind of interest do you have there? Going after your son’s sloppy seconds?”

“Not quite. I think Sansa Stark is spoken for.” Cersei made sure the whole world knew about the girl’s inconvenient relationship with Ned Stark’s adopted son. Or whatever that sorry son of a bitch is to them.

Cersei pouts back at him. “Shame.”

“Yes. It is. Seems like a loyal girl. You two do have something in common though.”

Cersei’s fine brows arch, but her forehead remains unlined. “Do tell.”

“Keeping it in the family.” He watches the roll of her throat and let’s her stand there for a moment, the way he would keep a batter waiting anxiously at the plate. “I know about the other men you’ve been fucking,” he says, lowering his voice, because as much as he wants to yell, Tommen is in the next room.

“Is that right?”

“Lancel, Cersei? He’s a goddamn kid.”

“Not anymore he’s not. He works for King’s Guard, which has proved to be very useful. More useful than you.”

“That’s all it takes then, hmm?”

She lifts one hand off the counter and brings it under her chin, fingers curled in, looking calm and thoughtful in spite of being cornered. “You’re in no position to judge. The world handed you everything on a silver platter. You don’t know what it’s like to be me. I did what I had to do. I don’t have to like it, I just have to get it done.”

“You didn’t like what cousin Lancel served up?”

She huffs. “You and your enormous ego. I could be going to jail if Lancel didn’t know how to use a shredder and the delete key before handing over the company’s records to the board. That's what matters to me.”

Before they stopped speaking, before she cut him for her life, Cersei warned Jaime that Baratheon Industries was in trouble, but this is something new. “Clever Lancel. What was the kid destroying evidence for?”

“Allegations of defrauding the company.”

“Oooh,” he says with a twist of his mouth. “Did you?”

She shrugs.

“Why not pin it on Robert, send that son of bitch to jail?” It would solve all their problems. Everything could be the way it was before the divorce. Except the image of his wife—his ex—fucking his cousin will forever torment him.

“Why do you think he’s been removed from the board of his own company, dearest? Robert would be sitting before a judge right now if his brother wasn’t such a pussy.”

Jaime doesn’t care about Robert or Renly. What he can’t help but care about is Cersei. Can’t get her and the men she’s let into her bed out of his goddamn head. “And Kettleblack? What illegal bullshit did you have him get up to on your behalf?”

“It doesn’t matter now.”

“You’re right. It doesn’t. Because I have no interest in talking about any of this with you.” It’s mostly true, except his mouth won’t shut up, pressing for more, more, more.

“That’s the problem, Jaime. You left me hanging, when I needed you most with the Starks on attack and Robert being completely useless.”

“You made your bed.”

Her reply comes quick and low, bubbling with restrained rage. “You want me to do penance for what happened? I won’t. I won’t beg you or anyone for forgiveness. I made friends where I could.”

Friends. Jaime scrubs his face and rocks off the refrigerator, taking a step towards her, his teeth gritted together. “It makes me sick.”

She doesn’t flinch. She doesn't snap. Her whole approach changes in the blink of an eye. Her body softens toward him, pulled forward by the force of that old thing they’ve always had, fired up by proximity and hot words. “You used to understand that it was us versus the world,” she says, her eyes skimming down his chest. “You would have helped me no matter what. You were _my_ hero.”

Then again, it could all be an act, this shift in her. The approximation of what used to be real. As well as he knows her, she knows him just as well. She knows what to say to reel him back in, knows the posture to take, and the soft, purring tone, and he can’t allow it.

“I didn’t want anything to change between us, Cersei.” He offered her a different kind of future, a quieter existence, and she rejected it in favor of the power and a public life that Robert offered her.

“It’s always been you. You know that. No one else means anything.” She traces the bone in his wrist, drawing his gaze down to the narrow space between them. It would be so easy to bridge it and take her in his arms. “I still need you, Jaime.”

He wants to believe she needs him. That’s always been his primary concern in life, and while he’s unaccustomed to having kids around, he could rearrange things so Cersei and Tommen could come live here. Shit, he could get a new, big, kid friendly house in the suburbs if she really wanted him.

If only it was only that simple.

The tip of her nail disturbs the hair on his arm, while she draws lazy, tantalizing swirls. “Baratheon Industries is being sold. Barristan & Rakharo are negotiating the sale.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. He pulls back his arm and stuffs both his real and fake hand into the pockets of his slacks. Doesn't even catch. Brienne would be pleased. “That right?”

Stiffness climbs up her spine, spoiling the liquid enticement of a moment earlier. “Your brother’s grubby fingerprints are all over this.”

He kicks back from the counter, putting a safer gap between the two of them. “Probably. Who’s buying?”

“Renly and his business partners.”

“The younger brother swoops in.” Jaime rolls his shoulders. There’s a tightness forming between his shoulder blades that he’ll try to work out at the gym this evening or maybe in a hot shower after he’s alone. That’s what he needs right now as much as he fears it, because when he couldn't play ball anymore, the only thing left to define himself was her. “Not that much of a pussy, huh?”

Cersei turns, pressing her hip into the counter. “And that Tyrell girl will still get her share.”

“How’s that?”

“Her brother is one of the partners. They’re out for all they can get. Grasping upstarts.”

“Interesting.”

“That's all you have to say? Tommen will be unprotected,” she says with a sharp look towards the bedroom, which currently provides them with a tinkling soundtrack to their discussion and Tommen’s voice raised in chorus. “That was his supposed to be his inheritance.”

“He’ll be okay.” It might be too early to write off the prospect entirely, but Jaime can’t imagine Tommen as a businessman. He’ll probably do something that contributes something a little more worthwhile to the world. Do something to help people or animals. Cats. If Cersei doesn’t ruin him, he’ll find his own way.

“And with Lannister Mercantile stumbling, Joffrey’s inheritance isn’t certain either.”

Jaime pants out a laugh. “They’ll provide him with everything he needs in prison.”

She narrows her eyes at him, her lip hooking in unveiled revulsion. “This is serious, Jaime. I’ll be unprotected too.”

“You always come out on top, sweetheart.” This setback will be temporary. She’ll find another way to scratch her way out.

“We need you. We can rehabilitate our image together. Fight back and work our way back into society.”

Her needing him would be just as temporary.

He shakes his head. “No interest in the whole society scene, I'm afraid. I’m going to do my own thing.”

Her hands go to her hips, where they flare out and fit perfectly in his grasping hands. “Which is?”

He doesn’t have a good answer. Helping Sansa was supposed to be the first step towards a different kind of life, but so far, no moments have presented themselves, where he could demonstrate what kind of man he can be.

“Ah, be alone, I guess. Find something worthwhile to do with my life that hasn’t just _handed to me on a silver platter_ ,” he adds, bending towards her with a smile.

“And us?” Cersei asks, pointing towards the bedroom.

He could suggest she try to play nice. Make real friends. Think about some of the things she’s done. But there’s no point.

“I wish you all the best.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harassment won't be acknowledged, and I wish I didn't have to say that.


	47. Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone is going to have to compromise, and Jon doesn't think it should have to be Sansa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is brief reference to some of the violent things Jon has lived through and intrusive thoughts of self harm and violence.

Chapter Forty-Six: Jon

Jon came to Michigan to get out from underneath the glare of the paparazzi, to escape crowds, and lessen his anxiety. It’s worked to a degree. His days of assessing for threats in crowds are pretty much over and bumping around an empty house and waking every morning to the quiet of the lake has helped even him out, but there’s still a constant thread of tension that runs through him, disturbing his normal train of thought. One little tug at that fraying thread, another, and by the end of the day, he feels as if he could unravel. His counselor says he’s suffering from anxious thinking. The game of what if that drives the unreasonable fears he harbors.

Without a trial to worry about—he doesn’t give a minute’s thought to Joffrey’s upcoming trial—or the potential of suffering a full blown episode in front of a soul sucking paparazzo, a lot of his anxious thinking focuses on what’s beyond his reach. Like Sansa. There are nightmares from time to time. Nights when he sees Ygritte’s head hitting the ground as her helmet is pulled off and her red hair suddenly doesn’t look as red as the blood staining the sand beneath her. Sometimes the face is wrong. It’s Sansa whose red hair spills out of the helmet and her blood that the medic’s hands end up slick with.

On those mornings, he has a weird sense of having injured Sansa and somehow done Ygritte a grave disservice too. A cold jog by the lake shakes the visions from his mind, but he’s not himself afterward. He fights the urge to call Sansa half a dozen times during the day to make sure she’s okay. Or to see whether she still wants him, the shell of a person she’s shackled herself to.

His counselor says it isn’t uncommon in a long distance relationship to suffer from anxiety, but to Jon, on the bad days, he feels clingy and possessive and shitty. At worst it makes him think he’s the kind of boyfriend he doesn’t want to be, and it confirms his decision to come out here and work on himself. As much as he misses her, he needs to shore himself up before he can give her what she needs.

Today’s litany of what ifs were especially hackneyed. What if Sansa doesn’t answer his Skype request? What if today is the day she forgets? What if she finally realizes there are plenty of guys her age right there in the city, who aren’t head cases with intrusive thoughts?

The intrusive thoughts are the goddamn worst. For a good long while he didn’t tell his counselor about them. More anxious thinking convinced him that giving voice to the thoughts might make them real, so he avoided mentioning in his sessions the thoughts that sometimes crept in from the side, making him feel like a lunatic. It got to the point where the intrusive thoughts made him feel as crazy as the episodes had, so he fessed up.

Good news: he’s not a monster or suicidal, just nuts. No, the counselor says he can chalk it all up to anxiety. Good people have these kinds of thoughts and they don’t ever act on them. They don’t steer the car into the guard rail. They don’t kick a burning log onto the rug in the fireplace in order to watch the room slowly go up in flames. They don’t follow through on any of the thoughts that could endanger themselves or others. While that’s not the easiest thing to believe, seeing how he snapped at the Night’s Watch, knowing how to deal with the thoughts has lessened them.

The counselor taught him not to push the intrusive thoughts away, which was his gut reaction. Grip the steering wheel hard and don't drive into the guard rail. Don't go anywhere near the fucking fireplace. Stay away from the dock. Avoidance. Focus. But that's all wrong. What he is supposed to do is breathe through them the way he does an episode, realize the content doesn’t matter, is completely irrelevant, and continue going about his business without altering his behavior. Ghost helps with that. Helps ground him and makes him feel like a normal, caring person, instead of a lurking threat. Chasing around an energetic puppy is a damn good distraction too. Ghost isn’t trained as a support dog, but Sansa wasn’t wrong that having pets around has benefits regardless.

Jon used to slip into the numb place, disassociating with the world around him. Sansa dragged him out of that nothingness and made him feel again. First they felt miserable together and then it was something so much better. Here alone, Ghost prevents him from falling back into old, bad coping habits. Feeling, even feeling the bad stuff, is better than the emptiness.

“Want to Skype our girl?” he asks, speaking to the puppy he scoops off the floor.

The dog doesn’t answer, though his pointy ears give a tilt that could be a yes. Ghost is actually really quiet—doesn’t bark or whine the way other dogs the Starks have had over the years did. Jon noticed as soon as he brought him home from the Samoyed rescue and started to worry. The vet says he’s fine. He’s not deaf. Responds to noises, wiggling all over like he’s going to take off, when the dog food hits the bowl. Ghost just likes to be quiet, which is how Jon feels a lot of the time too. Sansa says Ghost is his daemon, whatever that means.

Jon sits down in the brown leather desk chair he snatched from the library a few weeks after arriving in White Harbor. Ned used to work remotely from the library, when he was on vacation with his family, the ever dutiful public servant, but nobody has been around since school started and Ned doesn’t have any political dealings to handle anymore, so the library chair won’t be missed. Plus, it’s being put to good use: Jon needs somewhere to sit while he uses his laptop at night, somewhere other than the bed in the in-law suite he occupies for the time being.

Lounging in bed even for a few minutes could end in him passing out before he gets a chance to chat with Sansa now that he comes home bone tired from work. It’s a welcome feeling. The physical exhaustion helps slow the brain, dulling the anxious feeling that curls in his gut, as he flips the laptop open and the what ifs tickle the back of his mind. When things slow down at work, this is the moment of the day his brain jumps to with a mix of anticipation and worry. The worry always goes away. Almost as soon as he sees her face.

He enters his password with one hand, while the other keeps the frisky puppy from careening off his lap. If he let Ghost run wild during his nightly Skype session with Sansa, he would probably discover a chewed up rug or curtain panel when they’re finished. Catelyn would not be pleased to find out her house was being slowly destroyed by Jon’s new puppy, which makes damage control one of Jon’s priorities. Jon doesn’t always want to be Cat’s least favorite person. No son-in-law does, and that’s what he wants to be. Someday. Hopefully not years and years from now. Which means he’s got some goodwill to build. The jars of cherry jam he picked up roadside are only going to go so far.

The blue glow of the laptop is the only source of light in his bedroom, as he logs in and selects Sansa’s name from his contacts. He’s got a whopping three: Sam, Sansa, and Arya. Not exactly a huge network, but it keeps him from being entirely isolated out here, where he doesn’t have any friends anymore, having left Michigan too long ago for anyone to want to meet up for a beer and awkward silence.

Jon loves Michigan, but the people he loves are in New York. Being away has been good for him and good for them too—the paparazzi tired of the stale Stark news and directed their cameras to the next hot topic not long after it became clear he and Sansa weren’t going to be stepping out of the house on some shocking, semi-incestuous date they could capture and sell to the highest bidder. But it’s still hard.

He talks about once a week with Arya and the boys with varying degrees of success depending on Arya’s mood and the amount of sugar his brothers have recently scammed. His little sister seems to have forgiven him, but there’s some rebuilding to be done there. He’ll need to spend at least one day over Thanksgiving just with Arya and the boys, so they know he’s still as much their brother as he was before.

He talks with Sam somewhat less regularly, whenever something comes up that requires a dose of his solid advice, heavily influenced by Gilly’s shouted instructions in the background. His friend visited him for a week at the end of August, which ended up being one of the highlights of his summer. The other being the month his family spent here in July. Except for Sansa: she couldn’t get more than two weeks off work and even that was a stretch. That was the last time he saw her in non digital form.

Her smiling face, scrubbed free of makeup and ready for bed, appears on his screen, and she gets her hello out first. It’s a half whisper, probably since the rest of the house is asleep, and totally unintentionally sexy. Reminds him of the way she sounds whispering warm, breathy things against his ear. The setting does too: the view of her headboard swings in an arc behind her face, as she falls back in her bed. The screen jars, when her head hits the pillow. Either just seeing her or the amateur iPhone camerawork makes his stomach swoop. Probably the former.

“Hey, sweetheart. What’s going on?”

She hums. “Mama made your favorite tonight,” she says, wetting her lips, and he’s reminded of the other reason he never takes the laptop to his bed to talk to her. It’s only slightly easier to keep himself together with his hands on the library chair’s arms and his feet planted on the floor, fully dress and shoes still on.

Sometimes they exchange awkwardly sexy text messages. Awkward at least on his end. The girl he used to think of as pretty and prim and untouchably perfect—sexless, Robb’s sexless little sister—is now anything but. The most innocuous comment from her end makes his mind go places it shouldn’t given the sometimes inopportune timing of her texts. The naughty ones? Forget it. The text relaying exactly what she’d like to be doing to him that very moment, which he received while standing in line at the hardware store, still makes him grimace with embarrassment. Especially since the checkout guy asked him twice if he was okay after he kept handing the guy the same twenty for a fifty-fifty dollar purchase.

But the Skyping is innocent.

He shifts on the chair. “My favorite, huh? Trying to make me jealous?”

“Just made me wish you were here,” she says, sliding a hand behind her neck to pull free a long silky fall of red hair from beneath her shoulders.

He even tried to behave while she was here in July. Ultimately failed—spectacularly, in the laundry room with Sansa’s polka dot bikini pushed up over her breasts and her bare ass balanced on the edge of the vibrating washing machine—but he took a stab at it. If Osha hadn’t orchestrated an impromptu moment, pushing him towards the house, insisting he help Sansa make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, while Ned and Catelyn were running an errand and the boys were looking for cool rocks with Arya’s assistance, he might have succeeded in not having sex with her and probably would have left Sansa feeling completely unwanted.

Nothing could be further from the truth. Attempting to keep things PG during the family visit or over Skype is his way of giving her space, so she won’t feel pressured to keep being with him if that’s no longer what she wants. It’s potentially self defeating. Maybe even overprotective. His counselor says he needs to trust that Sansa knows what she wants.

She swears it’s him.

“I wish I was there too.” God, he wants nothing more than to wrap a fistful of her hair around his hand and hold her tight to him. Unsurprisingly, he doesn’t feel as tired as he did a few minutes earlier. Adrenaline. The soft purr of her voice. The slow blink of her eyes. The way her tongue keeps darting out to wet her lips. He takes a deep breath. Takes him about thirty minutes and a shower to calm down enough to go to sleep after they talk. “This guy,” he says angling the laptop to show Ghost, who has passed out in his lap in the shape of a fuzzy comma, “misses you too. Despite how it looks.”

Sansa makes a high pitched noise over the puppy and he tilts the screen back up, smiling at her, his mood lightening with every second spent talking to her. It’s not a poodle or whatever it was Sansa picked out for him, but the fact that a Samoyed will end up considerably larger than any lap dog hasn’t stopped Sansa from making a big fuss over Ghost.

“I wish you could bring him with you for Thanksgiving. The boys would have so much fun with him.”

“I know, but he’d be a mess flying, and at least we don’t have much longer to wait.” He didn’t allow himself to start counting the days until November 1st, but it’s been a long month.

“Thankfully. Mama’s potato casserole and you for a whole week.”

“In that order?”

She gives a little shrug, bringing a bare shoulder onto the screen. “Mama’s potato casserole is really good, Jon.”

It is, and it wasn’t so long ago that Sansa refused to eat it. They’re all doing better. He even felt up to visiting Robb’s grave a month ago. There was no smell of lilacs this time. No daffodils or flowering trees. The grass was brown and the trees were shades of orange and yellow and red, heralding the end of their life cycle. Not quite winter, but it felt more appropriate than on the day of his funeral. No gawkers. No fucking Baratheons or Lannisters with faux concern painted on their faces. There wasn't another soul in sight, when Jon plopped down. He didn’t let himself worry about whether it was crazy to have a conversation with Robb’s shiny granite headstone. Told Robb about him and Sansa. Promised he’d do right by her. Didn’t blink away the tears that stung his eyes and felt better for it after.

“Did you pick yourself something up for dinner?”

She can’t make him lunch anymore, but her inquiries into his eating habits give him the same feeling as when he would find his lunch wrapped up separate from the rest in the refrigerator: cared for, worried over. He didn’t know he needed it until he had someone who fussed over him.

“I grabbed something.” Carryout is expensive, but ramen and frozen dinners get old really quick. Especially when you got accustomed to eating Catelyn’s dinners again.

“You need to learn how to cook, Jon. Until I can cook for you.”

Jon’s mind begins a quick tick, running through all potentialities, a rush that threatens to overwhelm everything else. His counselor swears Xanax would help if he’d give medication another try. He’s drug free at the moment, leaving him to feel the full weight of her comment, which he finds both reassuring and terrifying. They’re on the same page: he wants to be with Sansa and the whole package that goes with forever—the big wedding, a house, kids running around the lawn he will spend too much time mowing. That doesn’t scare him. What scares him is his uncertainty over whether he can get his shit together enough to make that a reality.

It’s what makes him hold back. He’s better in person, her presence pulling from him the stuff he would normally find hard to say. But it’s more than the impersonality of Skype that keeps him from telling her how much he loves her and misses her and needs her or keeps him from confessing to her what a masturbatory wreck he’s been in her absence—then again, girls probably don’t want to hear gross shit like that.

“Teach me how and we’ll cook together.”

“Deal.”

Half the country separates them: there won’t be any cooking lessons any time soon. Sometimes the distance seems insurmountable. As much as he needs the quiet and slower paced life out here, she needs to be in New York. Fashion is centered in New York or Paris or Milan or Tokyo. Big cities.

It’s what she loves and she’s good at it. Really good. They love what she’s been doing at the magazine with the accessible fashion blog, the big project she came up with about a year ago. It’s how she finally landed a real position and an actual paycheck to go along with it. Jon doesn’t know the first thing about fashion, but he visits her blog every day. The same way she would check in on what he’s doing if she could. Maybe they need one of those remote camera feeds at the lodge.

“Work good?” she asks with a hopeful look quirking her lips and brows.

Everyone is happy that he’s back working. No one more so than Jon. It’s good to have a job and feel useful. Works to build up the self confidence somewhat. It’s nice to be sending off those checks to Ned at the end of every pay period to begin to pay him back.

Jon had about given up on using his degree, until he spent the afternoon dragging Sam around Wolfswood State Park. It was a good day. School was back in and they were pretty much alone. The birds were noisy overhead and the ground made a good solid sound under his boots. Even Sam’s complaints about the length of their hike couldn’t spoil the day. It was a nice enough that he looked into what kind of qualifications you needed to be a park ranger after he spent a couple nights staring into the living room’s fireplace, wishing he was back at the park. Turns out he was pretty much set thanks to his bachelor’s in environmental science. The degree counted as two years experience, and the other qualifications weren’t onerous: switching his license to the state of Michigan and getting his CDL before six months were up.

There was a full time opening at Wolfswood in September, Jon applied, and Chief Ranger Stannis hired him on the spot, despite a really uncomfortable interview, which Jon was convinced was going south right up until he was offered the job with a stiff handshake.

“Yeah, I was outside today.”

It’s always a good day when he gets to spend the majority of it messing around outside. Of course, he didn’t feel that way when he was hauling a heavy pack around the desert. Michigan weather is much more his speed. Despite the fact that this room is currently about five degrees cooler than he’d like it. It’s expensive to heat this huge house, so Jon’s been relying on firewood to heat the kitchen and living room, and otherwise sticking to his suite, which is warmed by a too small electric heater. Cheaper but not more comfortable. Still, he gets to write out a bigger check to Ned, paying off his debt that much quicker. The sooner he gets the debt cleared, the sooner he can look for a little place to rent, so he’s not forever living on the Stark dime. A job, his own place—all steps towards becoming a healthy, contributing member of society. Somebody fit for Sansa. Hopefully.

Her nose wrinkles. “Your cheeks are chapped.”

“It’s starting to get cold here,” he says, reaching up to rub his chin.

“Here too. I’ve had to bundle up for work all this week.” You wouldn’t guess it from the expanse of skin he sees every time the phone dips.

There won’t be any of that chaste bullshit over Thanksgiving. It’s been a hell of a long time since he was inside of her and watched pleasure play on her face; there’s no damn way he’s going to be able to keep his hands off her. Hopefully she feels the same way.

No, she does. She's told him she does.

Thankfully, the sleeping arrangements are more conducive to a late night rendezvous. Here in Michigan, Sansa’s bedroom—Barbie pink from her preteen years—is right next to her parents. There’s no way he could sneak in and no way she could sneak out. There’s plenty of privacy in his in-law suite, but no way for her to get to it without alerting everyone on the shared hallway of what she was up to. They’ve got sneaking around totally worked out in New York though. Something Ned and Catelyn must be mulling over, as his arrival approaches. Jon wants to be respectful, but he wants Sansa more. It gives new meaning to the unwanted relation at the holidays.

Still better than the future Robb envisioned, where they were all going to be stuck with Joff sitting at Sansa’s side at family events. Even Cat would agree Jon’s the better choice. The one thing they can all agree on is that Joffrey deserves to rot in jail, whether or not he ends up there or is saved by some Lannister lawyer.

“Soon I’m gonna need one of those scarves you featured on the blog yesterday.”

“You saw that?” she asks, a toothy smile lighting up his screen.

“Course I did.”

“You want a pink one for Christmas? Or sequins?” She purses her lips and bats her eyelashes.

“Oh, man. These are the tough choices.” He pulls a face at her, the kind that would make Rickon dissolve into peals of laughter. “I’ll leave it up to you.”

Christmas. Maybe he should be thinking about the spirit of the season or whatever, but what’s foremost is that it’ll be another week together. Another month to count down until that week and then the long stretch until Easter. Being in a long distance relationship is like constantly living for some fleeting future moment.

Better to be in one than not in one at all. Especially with Sansa. He's got plenty to be thankful for this year.

“Don’t tempt me, Jon. That uniform of yours is kinda sad.”

After taking off his last uniform, which he left hanging at the back of his closet in New York, where he doesn't have to see it, he never thought he’d ever put another one on. This one is different. His ranger uniform doesn’t make him avoid his reflection in windows and bathroom mirrors. “Wait until you see the park issue winter hat.”

“Bad?”

He frowns. “You’d toss it for sure.”

“So long as it keeps you warm while you’re working, I guess.”

“That’s pretty much the only thing it does.” The ends of his hair curl out underneath the greenish brown knit, begging to be cut off.

A polished finger comes up to poke between her lips. It’s as bad as her tongue darting out over the fullness of her lip, making him think of all the things he wants to do to her, of how much he wants to suck that lip between his teeth and drag his tongue over hers. Jon realizes she’s looking expectantly at him, and mutters a lame apology. “What was that?”

“What were you doing outside? At work?”

“Oh, um. Heavy equipment training. Getting ready for winter.”

Snow is forecast for overnight. Attendance has slowed and soon snow removal along the park’s main road will be his primary job. Plowing snow and budgeting and reconciling accounts aren’t exactly how Jon wants to spend the winter, but there will also be the long days of tromping around in knee high snow, checking on buildings and patrolling the park, which sounds pretty damn peaceful. When spring comes there will be maintenance to do, landscaping duties, and recreational and educational programs to lead, which he got a taste of at the outset of his time at the park, working alongside a couple of more senior rangers that he likes really well. The kids are great. Enthusiastic about owl habits and fossils and beach restoration and stomping around in leaves. Good stuff.

It’s a good job and he sure as hell likes it, but it’s not exactly lucrative. It’s not Stark money. Jon and Sansa are both accustomed to a certain kind of lifestyle, and while he can rough it on ramen and cheap beer, he doesn’t want that kind of life for Sansa. That might be all his salary could ever provide.

Never mind that there aren’t exactly rent controlled shacks in Central Park. Someone is going to have to make a compromise and it shouldn’t have to be her.

“You’re careful working with the heavy equipment, right?”

“Always,” he assures her.

“Good.” She starts to yawn and covers it with the back of her hand.

“Tired?”

“A little. Those crazy hours are catching up to me.”

There was a hard push last week to get the December issue of the magazine to press on time. A couple of nights where it was too late for her to check in for even the briefest of chats. He swears he was understanding about it. “The magazine look good?”

“Ask me in January. It’s thick enough to use as a doorstop, which is about all I can say for it at the moment. I’ll be glad when they just keep me on the blog. This pulling double duty is killer.”

He always knows beforehand what things from the day he wants to tell Sansa about and what he wants to ask her about. It’s the other stuff, the emotional stuff, which is harder to say, and he can feel it starting to take form between them, as she wipes sleepily at the corner of her eyes, their conversation petering out, leaving a space for the things they don't always say.

Ghost stirs in his lap, his furry paws stretching straight out in front of him as he yawns. With a shake of his head, the puppy is back awake. The nudging Jon gets from his cold nose is a clear sign.

“Well, I’ll let you get to sleep. I gotta take this little guy outside before bed anyway.”

“No accidents in the house.”

“No, ma’am.”

She runs her fingers through the hair pulled over her shoulder, separating it into strands, as she bites into her lip. “Jon.”

Her fidget might be confused with flirtation, but she’s nervous. At least a little. “Yeah?” he asks, wishing he could tug her into his chest.

“I’d trade Mama’s casserole for you.”

It’s an _I love you_ draped in something less likely to lead to tears. “Me too, sweetheart.”

The screen goes blurry as she kisses the camera with a soft smack. “Luckily we don’t have to.”

No. They don’t have to give up one for the other. No compromising on that. It is the rest of it that is all up in the air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Intrusive thoughts are frightening thoughts about what might happen to you or someone you care about, or what you might do to yourself or another person. They seem to come from outside of your control, and their content feels alien and threatening."
> 
> As opposed to suicidal thoughts, they're the thoughts that say, _Drive into oncoming traffic_ , and you think, _I don't want to drive into oncoming traffic!_ and then you get all anxious worrying about whether you're going to actually drive into oncoming traffic, when you know you don't want to. It feels like a universal phenomenon to me, but maybe it's less common than this anxiety prone author is given to believe, which is why I wanted to specify here what Jon's dealing with.


	48. Epilogue: Sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa decides to surprise Jon with her plans to move to Michigan.

Epilogue: Sansa

The click of Sansa’s heels and the bump of the wheels of her three piece luggage set on the sidewalk leading from the porte-cochère to the front door should be enough to herald her arrival. Particularly since it’s amplified by the conical shaped roof overhead. But it isn’t. In fact, after she’s thanked the driver for helping with her bags and he’s slammed his door and pulled around the circular drive, there are still no signs of movement behind the darkened sidelight windows.

Sansa sets the periwinkle weekender slung over her shoulder down on her mother’s monogrammed doormat. It’s an immediate relief not having the bag digging into her bare shoulder. She gives her shoulder a squeeze, trying to work the dent out of her flesh.

Despite the key in her bag, she uses the doorbell. The last thing she wants is to startle Jon by springing around a corner unannounced. Slipping beyond the monitored gate with her mother’s borrowed security card is chancy enough. Jon is doing better, but no one likes to be pounced on by an apparent intruder. The bell should rouse him: even standing outside, the elaborate chime echoes loudly through the door. Plenty loud enough to be heard all the way in the in-law suite if that’s where he’s spending his Saturday afternoon.

Still, she is the last person he’d expect to be ringing the bell, which means there’s a fair chance he actually _will_ ignore it, she realizes, twisting to look down at her bag, where she tossed her phone after fishing her luggage off the carousel in a hurry to get to him as quickly as humanly possible. A text might be necessary to get him to come to the door. Arriving like a delivery of unexpected roses—complete with careful unwrapping—is precisely how she dreamt about this moment, when she conjured up this plan, but the reality is that they all learned to be wary of people ringing their doorbell, when the paparazzi took up residence outside their home.

It’s too cold for the cotton sundress she’s wearing, but this was the dress she was wearing in her imagination, when Jon opened the door and swung her right off her feet. She remembers very clearly how he’d stared at it last summer. Or stared at her in it, while they were trying their best to behave in front of the family and she drove him nuts eating melting popsicles and lounging around in her tiniest bikinis. It’s a romantic notion not entirely practical for March in Michigan, when not even the creeping phlox has opened in a cascade of pinks and blues and the drive is stripped of its thick, cheerful border of vinca.

Once she saw the forecast, she had the good sense to throw on a cardigan, but it was stuffy in the airport and she tucked it away, lost in the promise of the spring, which hasn’t yet arrived at their lake house. She’s mid bounce, hands scrubbing over her arms to fight the chill and pledging to wait only another second for Jon to open the door before she digs for her phone, when Ghost bounds over the short hedge of boxwood that follows the drive. She wouldn’t have noticed—Ghost is about as quiet as a big dog can be and doesn’t ever bark—but his hind legs catch on the hedge on the downward arc of his jump, rattling the dry, dormant branches.

“Ghost!” she calls, as an image of him running down the lane after the black sedan that’s pulling through the stone pillared gate flashes before her.

But Jon’s Samoyed doesn’t chase the car. Jon’s done a good job training him or he’s more excited about seeing Sansa than an unfamiliar car. He runs straight for her, his tongue lolling out. It’s a solid wallop, when he skids over the entryway and thumps into her. Teetering on her heels, Sansa overcorrects and collapses forward into a crouch, stopping her tumble with an outstretched hand against the cold bricks.

“Good boy,” she laughs at his happy panted greeting. She’s seen him on Skype and in the pictures Jon texts her, but it’s startling how much bigger he is than at Christmas. He should be even happier to see her when she gets the treats she brought from the dog bakery out of her luggage. They’re iced to look like sneakers. Precisely like the real thing Ghost would probably enjoy destroying if given the chance.

“Where’s Jon? Hmm?” she asks, rubbing behind his ears and earning a heavy thump of his tail, as he noses into her personal space.

His answer isn’t terribly informative, but it is enthusiastic, and Sansa nearly loses her balance again as Ghost rests a heavy paw on her shoulder.

“Ghost, down.”

Suddenly Jon’s there, standing outlined by the bright afternoon sunshine, having popped out of somewhere on feet more silent than Ghost. She wants to laugh or cry, but she can barely swallow around the lump in her throat. It’s been months since they were together, a collection of seemingly endless days and weeks.

Nervous joy jitters up her spine, but that’s not what’s going on with Jon. With his hands stuffed in his pockets, his shoulders pulled high, and his head tilted down, Jon frowns at the dog instead of looking at her. His energy is all wrong, nothing like she expected. Ghost circles his legs, looking up at him with the same kind of confusion that churns the gooey cinnamon roll she ate for breakfast, while waiting for her plane to board.

“Hey,” she says, looking up from the pavement with a helpless shrug. “I’m a little off balance here.”

Jon doesn’t let her struggle to stand on watery knees: reaching out for her hand, he tows her up. It could end in a tight hug. She’s ready to climb him, wrap her legs around him, and bury her hands in his curls, but his hand slips free of hers to grab Ghost’s red collar.

“Hey, did he hurt you? Are you okay?” His brows draw together, as he gives Ghost’s collar a tug. Ghost’s twitching back end obediently meets the pavement.

Sansa dusts her hands off. “No, I’m in one piece. He’s a good boy. Just excited.”

Jon lets go of Ghost and gives her a slow once over from head to toe like maybe he doesn’t entirely believe she escaped unharmed. “I don’t have my phone on me,” he says, patting his empty pockets. “We’ve been outside all day. Is something wrong?”

“No, I didn’t call actually. I wanted to surprise you. Flew out, hired a car.”

His mouth flattens out in that uncomfortable grimace he used for political photo ops, adding to the impression that he’d been trussed up in his suit on pain of death. Jon isn’t much for surprises—she knew that—but she went ahead with it, because part of her worried that if he knew ahead of time that she wanted to move to Michigan, he would tell her no. Not because he doesn’t want her, but because of some displaced sense of honor or sacrifice or some other noble gesture Sansa could do without.

“The frig is empty,” he says, rubbing at the back of his neck.

The breeze coming off the lake brings Sansa’s shoulders up around her ears. Jon must be immune to it. He stands there like it’s a much warmer day than it is or doesn’t feel the chill the way she does with his sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms, showing off the watch she bought him for Christmas the first year after Robb passed. She feels it though. With every passing second she feels it more. By the time she’s worked through his disconnected statement, her teeth chatter, making her speech sound oddly staccato. “It’s okay, Jon. I ate.”

“Shit. Sorry. You’re cold, aren’t you? Come inside. Christ, I didn’t turn the heat up either,” he says almost to himself, as his hand brushes over her lower back before he takes hold of two of her bags. “Door’s unlocked.”

He wasn’t kidding about the heat: it’s warmer inside than outside, but not by much. Her eyes skim over the living room, where a fire has died down to mere embers. The fireplace is flanked by carved wooden wolves, which stand like sentinels several heads taller than Ghost. It’s an easy comparison to make, when he pads over the Oriental rug and curls up in a large comma.

The last time she was in this room, they were all camped out as a family, drinking hot cocoa and finishing dessert, and she’d let herself lean into Jon, resting her head on his shoulder. She saw Mama notice Jon’s hand find her knee, but if seeing them together like that upset her, she didn’t say anything, just gave her a half smile before handing Rickon a third napkin.

“You don’t travel light.”

“Oh, yeah. I actually have more being shipped. This is supposed to be more than a visit.”

His eyes flick up to hers, something bright and quick lighting them up. It’s gone when he looks back down, giving all his attention to the floorboards between them. He sounds both oddly flat and flustered, when he asks her, “You’re staying?”

“Yeah.That okay?”

Jon’s response is muffled by his hand, as he covers his mouth, his long index finger coming up to hook over his nose. “Christ.” He pauses to stare up at the ceiling. “All I can think about is how much I need you.”

She exhales and steps forward, her shins knocking into her largest suitcase. “ _Jon_. You got me.”

“Sweetheart, that sounds better than you can imagine, but…” His hand drops back down to his side and his fingers flex. “There’s what I want and then there’s making things right with your parents. For the future.”

There’s always that flip in her belly, when Jon mentions their future. It never gets old hearing him talk that way about them. Yes, she’s thought about their wedding. Who she might choose for her bridesmaids, who Jon might choose, a color palette for flower arrangements and linens, and whether a garden or a ballroom is more her style. She’s looked up places they might go on their honeymoon, weighing the pros and cons of beaches and cozy ski lodges. But she likes picturing Jon with a baby in the crook of his arm more than how he’ll look waiting for her at the end of an aisle. And there’s no niggling worry that things will be spoiled because the people they love most can’t or won’t support their decision to be together. Her parents will be there, the whole family, because they understand now.

“I’m here with their blessing. Everything is good,” she assures him.

He toes the suitcase out of the way and reaches for her. She doesn’t resist. She could hold back, punish him for not giving her the reaction she’d dreamt of, but they don’t play those games. He smells of the fireplace, wet heavy soil, and the cedar of the closet in the in-law suite—different from the way he smelled in New York, but the same Jon underneath, when he folds her in tight to his chest.

“Arya says we’re totally gross, but she loves us.”

Jon chuckles into her hair. “She didn’t say that.”

No, she didn’t. It was more like, _You’re totally gross, but whatever._ Sansa counts it as a ringing endorsement from her little sister, considering how Arya refused to even speak to either of them for weeks after she first found out.

“She did,” Sansa says, tilting her head back to look at him properly. “She said she loves us oh so much and wants us to be happy forever and always.”

“Sure.” Still he wears that too serious look. “Did you quit your job? You love that job.”

She reaches up to smooth the space between his brows.

Mama and Daddy would have flipped, thinking she was throwing away an opportunity in order to follow Jon, but a parental meltdown wasn’t necessary. “I’ve got a blog. A really successful one, you know. I didn’t quit anything. Everyone wants to make it work.”

Her editor wasn’t thrilled at first, but Sansa pitched the idea of a smart, affordable Middle American take on fashion. New York girl in Michigan type thing, blogging about clothing and accessories real people can afford that would be on trend but not out of place in either Michigan or New York. Classic pieces to build a wardrobe. Shoots here and in the city, showcasing how the looks work everywhere. Her editor went for it. They’ll mail her samples, she’ll edit the collection, and they’ll do the shoots for the blog in the city from her selections, while she manages shoot here in the hinterlands.

“Last I heard, the internet has come to White Harbor. So we should be okay.”

His chest deflates against hers, as he palms the back of her head and presses a kiss to the crown of her head. “I love you. I’m so damn happy to see you.”

“You have a funny way of showing it, Mr. Worry Wart,” she says with a little shove, letting her hands flatten out against him.

“Yeah. For a second there, I thought I was hallucinating.”

She immediately feels like the worst girlfriend in the world for teasing him, but his mouth finally quirks in that soft way that makes her want to kiss him and she waits for him to finish.

“Or a figment of an over active imagination or something. Only Ghost seeing you kept me from dialing up my counselor. You look gorgeous, but a pretty halucination is still unnerving.”

She cups his cheek. His fresh beard rasps under the rub of her fingers. “I can’t tell if you’re teasing me or not.”

“I’m kidding. Kind of. Don’t worry about me.”

“I do, you know. Worry.”

Not like she did before. Jon’s doing well at his job, he hasn’t had a full blown episode in months, he’s sleeping better at night for the most part, and his counselor only speaks to him once a month now instead of weekly. He’s made good progress, and Sansa likes to think she has too.

She stopped blaming herself for the bad things that had happened and forgave herself for whatever part she did play in them. As for the long distance, she didn’t like being away from Jon, but it wasn’t the disaster she worried it would be. It gave her some perspective. She spent more time with the family, worked on her friendships, developed her blog into something of a sensation at the same time Jon was putting his life back together.

Whatever good being apart has done, it’s not necessary anymore. He’s not stuck in the basement. He doesn’t need to be saved and neither does she. From now on, any growing they’re going to do, they need to do together.

He hooks a lock of her hair around his finger and draws it over her shoulder, letting it slide through the palm of his hand. “You can worry a little less though. I’m okay. I’m not screwed up beyond repair.”

“You never were.”

“Debatable. I just can’t believe you’re here.”

She planned the whole thing, but she can hardly believe it either. A surreal feeling overwhelmed her as soon as she boarded the plane.

She hums, leaning into the snag of his fingers in her hair, as he threads them through once more. “We should have talked about my coming.” It wasn’t fair to catch him off guard. She got caught up in the idea of a romantic reunion and the good story it would make later. But they don’t need the grand gesture. They’re enough. She knows the difference: window dressing versus the real thing.

“I’m not going to complain about how you got here.” His voice is low like a caress, and Sansa wants to leave the entry hall for someplace where she can more comfortably remind him how good it really is to be together.

His face pulls down in a frown, his gentle smile fading. “I want us to be together. I’ve been working towards that, so you wouldn’t have to give up anything.”

“I know, but do you really want to move back to New York?”

She knows the answer he can’t bear to give for fear of disappointing her. What she hasn’t made clear enough is that Jon isn’t the only one that doesn’t feel comfortable in New York anymore. She has absolutely no regrets about saying goodbye to the place. The shine has been off the apple for a long time. She’s been considering the move as far back as last summer, when Jon swore he needed time to himself and she couldn’t understand why.

Now that Jon’s got his feet underneath him, she can see why he might not have pushed himself to get better if she’d been around, providing an emotional crutch. He’s in a better place and she proved she can handle herself too. At this point, there’s no more they can accomplish apart. Her coming to Michigan is the best thing for both of them.

The only people she’ll miss are Jeyne and Mya, and she’ll force them to visit if she has to, twist their arms until they give in and leave New York for a week or something.

“I’m over New York. We’re all over it, I think. Daddy and Mama are going through with selling the townhouse.” The real estate agent was over not two days ago.

His eyes open wider. “End of the school year?”

“Yep.”

“Is Arya pissed?”

Bran and Rickon have school friends, but Arya has Gendry. She claims they’re just friends—always has—but Jon and Sansa have their suspicions. Still, her sister didn’t freak out, when they had the big family meeting about moving to Michigan. In fact, Sansa had to bribe Arya not to immediately call Jon with the news. Sansa just hopes the video games she swore she’d buy Arya aren’t too horribly violent. Her mama would be furious if it turns out they are.

“Surprisingly not.” She pouts. “You can’t escape us, Jon.”

She can hear him swallow, working up to something. “I thought we’d have to wait a lot longer to be together.”

“I know, but I couldn’t wait anymore. I want to be with you.”

The way his eyes dart over her face and his fingers twitch against her back, she knows he feels something more than he can say. Maybe just monumental relief, which is exactly what she felt wash over her once she decided to make the move. He’s probably been tired of the distance for as long as she has been, but Jon would have never said it, for fear of influencing her to give something up.

She nudges his nose with hers. “But, you know, I flew like nine hundred miles, thinking you were going to kiss me the minute you saw me.”

It’s just the smallest shift to bring his lips to hers. He begins it, but he lets her take over, lets her lead and take her time. Her heart hammers so hard that the sweetness of the kiss can’t be sustained. Her fingers twist in his shirt and she nips at his lower lip, urgency making her desperate. The bite of her teeth pulls a low sound from him that she smiles around, swallowing it, as his tongue brushes hers.

It’s been months, and maybe it’s the time apart that makes it feel new and deliciously familiar all at once. The soft fullness of his mouth. The rub of his beard against her chin, which given time will mark her pink and tender. The way his hand moving lower over her ass feels lazy even as they fall into a deeper kiss, awakening the need to rock into him and urge him to take more. She sighs, her body shuddering, as he finally fits his warm hand to her cheek and tilts his head, kissing her until her pulse pounds in her ears and other places she wants to feel his mouth on her.

He tastes like mint. If she could force her hand inside the front pocket of his jeans, she’d probably find a Tic Tac box. He uses ice cubes and mints as a coping mechanism sometimes, and she got him hooked on the Freshmint flavor she prefers for nights out. They tuck away in even the smallest clutch or in the tightest jeans in Jon’s case.

She slips her arms around his waist, settling her hands where his back narrows, smoothing them over the soft flannel. She found ways to touch him before she was allowed to be like this with him. Couldn’t stop herself half the time, all the while promising herself that it was innocent, this affection that was completely unaccustomed between them. She pretended it didn’t thrill her in a purely feminine way to invade his space and push him further and further with her teasing and her touching, testing him. Comforted by and hating his restraint in equal measure, frightened that it was all in her head and he didn’t want her at all.

She knows he’s thinking of how their hips fit together—she can feel it—when he lifts her onto her toes, rocking her against him, abandoning her mouth to kiss along the ridge of her jaw line back to her ear in a path she feels with tingling expectation of more.

But he stops. His lips leave her skin, his breath puffing over the slick spot he’s left behind, and he cranes his head back. His frustrated huff is the only reason she forgives him for stopping, that and the calloused rub of his thumb over her heated cheek, hot despite the chill of the house. “Like that?”

“Yes. Just like.” She fists the back of his shirt, pulling it tight. “You were holding out on me, Jon Snow.” He’d been holding out on her for years, but good kisser or not, she can’t imagine what kind of reaction she would have had if he’d tried to kiss her years ago.

He fixes her with a look that makes her feel restless in her own skin. “I was busy trying not to carry you off to my bed.”

“You know I wouldn’t have minded that. I _still_ wouldn’t mind that actually.”

Jon’s hands slide down her arms, slowly, until their hands are knit together. “You probably haven’t been to the in-law suite for years.”

“I haven’t.”

“We can fix that,” he suggests, jerking his head towards the northern end of the house.

He leads her through the wide archway that connects the in-law suite to the main house by a lengthy walkway. With its exposed wooden beams arching overhead, light pouring in through the floor to ceiling windows set with potted geraniums, and elaborately laid marble floor, the walkway is misleadingly beautiful. As a child, there were detailed games of make believe that took place in this walkway because of its fairy tale trappings. On occasion, Jon was roped into playing non-speaking roles—dragon that threatens the princess was a favorite—on rainy days, when the boys weren’t off at the beach. The hallway sets up certain expectations for the suite, which the tired looking main room can’t meet.

Jon doesn’t need to flip on a light, when he pushes open the door. The sunlight streams in from over the lake, and in the morning it floods in from the eastern side, only broken up by the tall trees that cover the property beyond the shoreline. The view is the best thing about this portion of the house.

The rest is kind of embarrassing. It’s very eighties. Floral prints, puffy, ruffled pillows, billowing curtains, and white wicker furnishings. Very Laura Ashley, which certainly isn’t her mother’s style anymore, but once Mama’s father passed, no one stayed in this suite and she must have let it drop to the bottom of the facelift list.

“Ooh.” She grimaces. “It’s worse than I remember.”

“Not impressed with my hip pad?”

“Not so much. Definitely ruins your cred, cool guy,” she says, dropping his hand.

“We’re in trouble if you still think I’m cool.”

“It’s okay. I kinda never did,” she says, yanking one heel off and then the other.

“I was gonna go look for an apartment or cottage or something next week. Stop imposing on your parents’ generosity.”

“I can go with you,” she says, watching as he bends over to turn a dial on a floor heater until a red light kicks on. “You know, pick it out together. I should have a say, dontcha think? About where I’m gonna live?”

“You don’t want to live here with your parents, when they move back?” He straightens up, and without messing with his laces, steps on the back of his Chucks, pulling his foot free. She wrinkles her nose. That’s how you ruin your shoes.

“Not really. I’d rather be with you.”

He looks so incredulous and she hates that, so she says his name like a plea and he loops an arm around her, pulling her into his hip. “It’ll be small. Might make look this suite look like a palace. I can’t afford much else.”

“It doesn’t need to be big and I’ll be helping out with rent. You won’t be weird about that, will you?”

He shakes his head no. Jon’s proud about some things, but he’s not a Neanderthal.

“You’re sure you want to live in sin though?” His smile is drowsy, dopey with something. Affection or lust or both.

Her parents don’t much go in for that sort of thing—living with boyfriends or girlfriends and Robb never did it—but her parents knew what the arrangements would be, when she came here. Hard to put the genie back in the bottle on the whole living together thing in this case.

“Well, for a little while,” she says, her tongue finding the corner of her mouth.

“Not any longer than that.”

“Oh, you’ll make me an honest woman, hmm?”

“If you’ll have me.”

Her finger taps one of the black buttons on his shirt. “That could be confused for a proposal, Jon.”

“That’s because it is one. Sort of.” A flush rises up from his shirt collar and spreads over his face. “You can forget I said it if you want.”

“No chance.” She’s not forgetting it. Not ever, she thinks, framing his face with her hands and drawing him down to her lips.

It’s freeing to be with Jon in the afternoon, bright sunshine showing every muscled plane of his chest, when he unbuttons the last button on his shirt and shrugs it off. Freeing in the light of day to be able to watch her hand travel over the trail of hair that disappears below the band of his pants and the almost pained expression on his face, when she runs a finger down his fly. They’ve never been able to leave his door open and not worry about making a sound. They’ve spent their whole relationship trying to find a moment alone and then having to spend it reminding each other to be quiet. As it turns out, sneaking around is hot for only a couple of weeks and then it’s just annoying. Nobody else is here and she doesn’t have to worry about keeping her voice low this time, when he eases her onto the bed and pushes her skirt up around her hips.

“Oh God, Jon.” She can’t help herself. Just the feel of his hands on her thighs has her parting her legs for him, though he still has his boxers on.

“Yes?” he asks, tracing the lace of her panties with warm fingertips.

She recovers some control by anchoring herself to his comforter, nails scratching along the fabric, digging in.

“You sure you’re not freaked out about my surprising you?” she asks, managing to sound nearly conversational.

“This is much better than what I had planned for the day.”

“What’s my competition? Chopping wood and walking the lake?”

“Both of those things are very therapeutic,” he says, finally allowing his thumb to circle over her damp panties.

She wants to grit out that other things are therapeutic too, but while Jon takes well to instruction, he is very hard to rush through the bits of this that he likes best. She’s come to realize he likes undressing her and teasing her a great deal.

“You look so damn pretty in this dress.”

“I wore it for you.”

“Did you, sweetheart?”

Just like she picked out the matching set lingerie. In black, which is usually not her thing at all, going in more for pastels and polka dots and tiny satin roses, but it made her feel dangerous to have black on underneath her sweet sundress. Sometimes it’s nice to feel a tad dangerous, and she feels safe enough with Jon to try on different moods without feeling as if she’s playing a part or losing herself.

“Mmm. Thought you’d like it.”

He presses a kiss to her thigh, below where she wants him, and she digs her heel into the middle of his back, trying to force him up. His answering smile is wolfish. “I do. Very much. Now tell me where the zipper is, so I can get you out of it.”

A gaspy little laugh tips her head back, as he rubs his stubbled chin over the sensitive flesh of her inner thigh.

“Do I have to search you?” he asks, rocking her slightly against the mattress as if preparing to roll her. “I’m trained in detainee searches.”

“I won’t make you work that hard.” She turns onto her stomach, giving him a view of the exposed zipper running down her back. “See?” she says, craning her head to smile sideways at him.

Yes, he takes very well to instruction, but he still drives her crazy with his slow attentions. At least she doesn’t have to wait any longer to feel his skin against hers, when he strips them both. That pleasing shock of flesh pressed together only winds her tighter. She was half way there just at the feel of his fingers sliding the zipper down her back and his mouth hot against the base of her neck, hair swept to the side to give him access, but Jon’s not satisfied with taking advantage of readyiness. He wants her begging.

She begs. By the time he’s kissed up her body and down, his hands working over her, she's arching against him and humming in frustration, pleading for him to hurry.

“Hold on, hold on,” he says, finally digging for a condom they don’t need.

“I’m on the Pill.”

He pauses, hand hovering over the nightstand.

It’s not actually a new thing. She’s been on the Pill since high school to help with hormonal breakouts, a necessity in modeling even when you’ve got fairly clear skin. But that wasn’t information she shared with Joff or Petyr or Jon up until this moment. It’s something she’s thought about since before Christmas. In the same way the first time sleeping with Jon was both exciting and smidge nerve-wracking, the idea of nothing between them makes her stomach do funny things.

“You don’t want me to use protection?” he asks, fingers curling into his palm. “We can still use protection.”

“I know, but that’s okay. I don’t want you to.”

It’s the right choice. The right moment for this, for them. She knows it, when he slides into her. Neither of them move, sharing air for several ragged breaths with their brows pressed together and his arms framing her face against his bed. It smells of him—the sheets, the pillow—and she wants to wake every morning to his warm male smell.

Wake to this every morning too, the slow push and pull of him inside of her and the filthy, lovely things he mouths against her ear and neck and breast. She hitches her leg up over his hip and his words falter, until it’s just a litany of blasphemy and I love yous, and she comes knowing he’s almost there too.

Sex like this is messy. With anyone else it would be embarrassing, but she laid herself bare to Jon long before this. He loves her. Doesn’t need or want her to be anything but what she is. Thinks she’s perfect with all her imperfections. It’s why she thanks him or God or fate or whatever brought them to this place.

“I still can’t believe you’re here,” he says, settling on the pillow beside her with a heavy sigh.

Her body is relaxed the way it hasn't been in months. It’s like she could sink right into the mattress, when she stretches and points her toes, luxuriating in the lingering tingle along her spine. “We’ll have to do that a couple more times until it sinks in, huh?”

“We could do that,” he agrees, turning on his side.

She expects he might tease her, mention how vocal she was there at the end, but instead, he stares unabashedly.

She narrows her eyes at him, drawing the sheet up between her breasts. “I can practically hear you thinking, Jon.”

“Okay, I'm curious. How did they go for it?”

“Who?”

“Your parents.”

“Oh.” She raises one brow. “You want to talk about my parents? Now?”

His hand snakes out to grasp her hip, hauling her into him. The room has warmed up. He’s sweaty and she’s sticky and it feels perfect. Why can’t they just stay in this moment a little longer?

“It’s kind of an important detail before our next call home. Which can’t be too long from now.”

Sansa looks up at the textured ceiling and wrinkles her nose. He’s right of course. As much as she wants to do the right thing when it comes to her family, Jon is even more dedicated to them. It’s one of the things she loves about him. It’s why it will work, transforming him from sort of adopted son to son-in-law. “I may have told them that you were the only thing I really wanted.”

His fingers tap over the round of her hip. “I think I’ve heard that before.”

She probably said that very thing about Joffrey at some point. Or modeling. Or any other number of things she really thought she wanted at the time. “I mean it this time.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” she asks, working one of her legs between his. She needs him to know how certain she is about them. Her parents get it now, and she wants Jon to feel as safe in their love as she does.

“Yeah, I do.”

“You don’t want to go ahead and tell me all the reasons why I shouldn’t be here? Why this is the wrong choice and you’re not right for me and I deserve something different? You know, get it out of your system.”

“No,” he says, smudging her lower lip with his thumb.

“No? You’re not going to nobly try to talk me out of it?”

“We should both get what we want this time.”

After everything, they both deserve it.

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has been along for all or a portion of this ride. It's been a long journey, and in addition to being my biggest fanfiction project to date, it's also taken place during immense changes in the Dram household, including the addition of Wee Dram. For that reason, I will always hold this fic very close to my heart. Your patience between long updates and enthusiasm in the comments and in my ask box has meant a great deal. It's made it possible to reach this point. This is the best corner of fandom. You can always find me on tumblr @ justadram. I have fandom plans for the future. I hope to see you all there!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Images from A City...](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6152257) by [Snacky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snacky/pseuds/Snacky)




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